Lucy entered the dining hall, face still flushed from the excitement she felt from Hart's kiss. On the walk across to the building, she had previously been concerned with how the others would receive her, considering her earlier actions. But Hart's words and touch banished all other thoughts quickly, and gave her strength to face the crowd.

It was so odd being in this dining hall with an entirely new group of faces. Where she was used to seeing Major Knox's drunken eyes gazing up at her, Dr. O'Donnel now sat, looking quite sober. Where she had been used to seeing Cleaves giggling away with George, she now saw General Slauson. Only Hart and Martha remained to remind her of happier -- or at least different -- times, and also of how quickly things could change in the mountains.

"Evening, gentlemen," Lucy said in her most collected manner, bowing her head slightly. She noted that Major Lindus and Colonel Ives weren't present, but thought nothing of it; there seemed to be a lot of running around today, anyway. Taking off her coat, she added, "I hope you'll forgive my....rash behavior earlier. Colonel Hart sorta explained it all to me, and I think I understand things better now." She hated playing the ignorant female, but often men had an easy time buying that act. Besides, it would explain where they'd been all this time.

She caught an unimpressed glance from Martha, and said, "I'm sorry I didn't help you with the last of the cooking, Martha. Is there anything else I can do?"

"Eat," was Martha's reply. "The food is on the table." She added to the doctor and General, "Everyone, please help yourselves."

"I'll clean up," offered Lucy, taking a seat at the table across from Hart.

Martha shook her head as she finished setting the table. "No. You have helped enough for today." She softened then, adding, "You have had a long day. We're all tired."

Lucy thought then that Martha must notice the difference in the room as well, must miss Cleaves and George terribly. Yet she held herself together so perfectly; Lucy envied her this skill. She looked down at her plate, recalling all that had transpired at the Fort and missing her friends, thoughts of Hart's gentle words gone as quickly as they came. But then she looked at him, and immediately her spirits lifted. She smiled, feeling mended once more. To the others, she asked, "Shall we wait on Colonel Ives and the Major? Or just dig in?"

Miles welcomed the interruption, not wishing to discuss it any further with someone who probably was inwardly calling him a liar. He smiled over at the woman as she explained herself. Moments passed of him staring into the fire until the call from the Indian woman of dinner being served. He chanced a glance over at the General and stood up, walking over to the table, eyes moving hungrily over the food. He sat down and smiled.

"Thanks very much."

Realizing that he hadn't introduced himself to the ladies who cooked his dinner, he felt decisively rude. He stood up and grinned.

"I'm sorry--how rude of me, ladies. I don't believe we've met, really. I'm Miles O'Donnel."

He learned their names and briefly their habits from the way they introduced themselves, a knack he had from watching people all his life and learning their nature by brief gestures.

"Shall we wait on Colonel Ives and the Major? Or just dig in?" Lucy asked politely. Miles pulled a face and nodded his head once.

"I suppose it would be better---more courteous to wait for them..." he replied.

The general waved his spoon, hoping he did not have a goofy smile on his face at the sight of Lucy. "Go ahead and eat. Colonel Ives and Lindus have already eaten, and I'm having thirds myself. We shouldn't make the ladies wait." Slauson tore his eyes away and back to his bowl. It had been a long time since he'd been in the prolonged company of women. But it had never affected him like this before. Perhaps he was going stir crazy like Hart.

The general was silent for moment, letting the doctor's tragic story sink in. It was no surprise that the doctor had a dark secret or dreadful mistake in his past. That seemed to be the running theme among the inhabitants of Fort Spencer. Still it wasn't entirely the man's fault by the sound of it. Slauson was reminded of Boyd for a second, and the similarities between his and the doctor's stories. Boyd had let men die because he was incompetent and couldn't take control, while O'Donnel had had his control taken from him by an incompetent person. There wouldn't be any danger of that here though. Dr. O'Donnel would be free to make all the medical decisions, and not have to worry about interference from that drunk.... "And the doctor who made the mistake? What became of him?" Slauson asked, suspicion dawning in his mind.

Hart took a seat at the table, giving a nod to Martha who only offered him a terse one in return before averting her gaze and tending to setting the table. He watched her for a few moments away before biting back a sigh and looked away as well. Martha had always had an uncanny knack for knowing things hidden. Did she see the guilt in his heart? Is that why she couldn't look at him?

He started at the table, his fingertip tracing the rough grain of the wood as conversation ebbed and flowed all around him, yet he did not wade into its tide. The joy, the *cleanness*, that he had felt when alone with Lucy had receded now that Hart was thrust back into the dangerous game he was playing. His attention briefly alit upon the new doctor and the small tidbits of his story that he could gather. Obviously the man had done something shameful, else he wouldn't be here. That was Fort Spencer for you, refuge of the exiled, the damned, and the shameful.

Hart looked up in an effort to at least seem like he was paying attention just in time to catch the General leering at Lucy. Leering. Swift, murderous anger rushed through his body like a wave of fire and suddenly he could see himself rising from the table, grabbing the General by his throat and beating the man until his face was pulp. Easily. Hart forced himself to take a breath and unclench his hand, which had unconsciously balled itself into a fist. He couldn't hurt Slauson first because he could not provoke Ives' rage. Not right now. And second, harming a superior officer over a woman was what landed him here in the first place.

His gaze went to the tabletop again as voices replayed in his mind. He could still feel the solid impact of his fist in General Charles Fitzsimmons' face over and over. Hart was in general a peaceful man, but the General's words had inflamed him into a rage beyond any he had ever felt. Charles knew of his indiscretions with his wife and rubbed them in his face. Rubbed the fact that Eudora was very likely carrying a child, *his* child, and Charles was going to make it so that he would never see it or her again. Hart never regretted hurting General Fitzsimmons. He deserved it. He would have gone to Fort Spencer a pleased man had that been the end of the tale. But then Eudora came in and spoke against him, wouldn't even look at him. That had shattered Hart.

He looked up again at Lucy. Paradise lost, once again, though this time by his own hand. He could love her tonight, but in the end, in the harsh brightness of day, Hart was still going to need to deal with the fact that he was a cannibal who had murdered his own men. No amount of love in the world was going to change that fact. He eyed the food that he had no appetite for as it was placed on the table and offered both Lucy and Martha a wan smile as he said politely, "Dinner looks absolutely wonderful. Thank you both for your efforts."

Miles stopped midway from scooping up potatoes at the General's question of what became of the man from his tale. He pushed his tongue down to his bottom jaw and cocked his head slightly.

"If you can imagine it, he's dead right now, General," he replied, holding back a slight chuckle. He gave a half smile as he sat down potato-less and nodded. "Got the news just before I came here, in fact." The name of the man was being screaming in his head, but he didn't announce it. He instead began to chew on a roll, eyes moving over his empty bowl. The Colonel Hart sat down as Miles observed a gaze-triangle between he, General Slauson, and Lucy. He sat back in his chair and tried to ignore the obvious tension between them all, collecting his thoughts.

Before the night was done, he wanted to talk to one of them. Just one, just enough to keep his mind occupied on more than one story. Just enough to keep him unbiased. His mind began to wander to Boyd still in the room, now with Colonel Ives--a man Boyd seemed to fear and yet a faint whisper of understanding between the two, Ives and he, came through in his voice. There was a history still unclear to him--and he couldn't get it from any of them. There was too much. He couldn't very well ask Ives as apparently he would not tell a similar story to Boyd's. Hart's protectiveness and gentle nature towards this Lucy woman would surely be something he would not tell a stranger such as Miles. Slauson---what was there to ask Slauson? Practically nothing, everything about him was written on his face when he spoke. He was in a bind that no amount of interviewing would get him out of. Still....at least he had some information.

The tension was still chokingly thick in the room. He cleared his throat and had a sip of water, smiling over at the Native American woman.

"This is quite a fine meal, ma'am," he offered. No reply. He raised his eyebrows and smiled again. "General, I was wondering if I may be able to question one more member of Fort Spencer tonight? I'll leave who it is to your discretion, as I don't want to make appointments with anyone who'd be more useful elsewhere. Then again, I could always wait until tomorrow."

Lucy smiled and accepted the General's offer, and helped herself to the food. She wouldn't have to be asked twice; she was hungry from her long, strenuous day, and she felt that a good meal would buck up her nerves some. She thought she caught the General eying her as she looked up briefly, but couldn't be sure, so quickly forgot it.

But when she looked up at Hart, she saw the fire in the looks he was shooting in the General's direction, and knew O'Donnel and probably Martha did as well. Thankfully, Hart got ahold of himself and thanked her and Martha for the food.

Martha took a seat at the table, not standing on ceremony for anyone who would let perfectly good food go cold in favor of horse stew. She looked up and nodded at Hart, serving herself some of the chicken and potatoes.

They listened to O'Donnel's question of Slauson, and Lucy couldn't help but feel a bit awkward. Was this to be a questioning, like with the law? Or just an informal chat? She wondered if he would want to talk to Hart or Ives. Certainly not someone like herself; no military men ever were interested in what women thought. Well, some did, she thought as Hart entered her thoughts once more. She listened for General Slauson's reply, intrigued by the newcomer's question.

~~

"Amon" Ives uttered softly to Boyd.

He watched as Boyd looked at him confused and exhausted.

"My name is Amon," he said and paused. "Amon Ives."

He had finally revealed to Boyd that he was Ives and always has been, Colqhune was simply a man who had been in the wagon party that he had escorted up the mountain that season. He had took his name and identity, he knew that no one would possibly know the man. He had been a poor unfortunate who had been on his way to die, depressed and bitter. He had not been inflicted with tuberculosis, but was just a lonely man with nothing to live for. He had been the second to die.

He stayed silent as the truth sunk in to Boyd. He still made no move toward him. His utterance of "what do you want from me" had gotten to him. He felt almost sorry for what he had done to Boyd, not to the others, but just to Boyd. It was true, Boyd had done nothing to Ives, and here he was pretty much torturing the man physically, emotionally, and mentally. Ives wasn't even quite sure what he wanted from Boyd. He knew that he did not like it when Boyd made him feel weak like this. No it was much better to extract fear from people and be powerful. Fear. It almost felt like heat radiating from their bodies. He knew this his whole life. He had a specialty in the military of doing this to his enemies. No he was not a weak man.

Ives waited and did not answer Boyd's other questions. He did however feel down for his knife and opened his coat enough for Boyd to see it. He then slowly took it out and held it in one hand playing with it with the other. And waited.

As the knife came into view, Boyd swallowed and leaned back a little. He wasn’t out of arm’s reach, but if Ives wanted him dead, he would be in a heartbeat anyway, no matter how far he slid away. He was chained to the wall and he had nowhere else to go. So Ives was his true identity. It made sense. That is how he go posted to this Fort so quickly. He was already a Colonel. It was a high-ranking post which meant at some point Ives was a man who did what he was told and did it well. Now the man before him did as he pleased and when he pleased. Ives answered to no man and that was truly scary. He had no one to scold or stop him. A life without structure is chaotic.

“Amon was an Egyptian God,” Boyd offered as a distraction for both Ives and himself. He did not realize in doing so he was revealing that he had been well educated. It was the proper classical education only the son of a wealthy man would receive.

“John. John Boyd,” And no matter what he offered, that knife was still out there, staring him in the face. “Are you going to kill me now? Or wait for someone else to do it?”

The question hung in the air and before it was answered, Boyd recalled Ives telling Lindus not to leave. Was the Scottish man intending to kill Lindus here and now? If he did and blamed Boyd for it, Slauson would have his head on a platter. “He will kill me if you kill again and blame me for it,” he explained getting almost desperate. He wanted to call out and warn Lindus, tell the man to run, but he knew Ives wouldn’t have it. He had a knife in his hand and Boyd’s throat with in reach. To call out was to die.

Ives continued to play with the knife. He had been amused by Boyd's education, amused that he was as he suspected. A rich kid spoiled with education and morality. If only he had been raised like him, to be tough and taught to do whatever it takes to get what you want, what you need. Indeed, Boyd had a better childhood than himself.

"What do you think Boyd? What is it that you think I should do? Turn myself into the General? Tell him that I am the killer, and that I framed you and that I deserve to die? What do you expect from me Boyd? I have taken you under my wing; have tried to give you the world when I could have simply killed you. Do you not think that I knew where you were in that deep pathetic little pit in the mountains? With Reich and your fear? I could have killed you right then, right there. I didn't, I let you live. Let you live to really live. And yet you resist me. And hate me and want me dead. I do not want to do this to you Boyd. I like..." Ives stopped, amazed as what he was about to say. Ives held up the knife to Boyd. "Now others will suffer Boyd. Knox suffered for your resistance. Who will be next? Ahhhh.... I know." Ives started to turn to the door. Ives held the knife up and moved it up and down slightly facing the door and smiled menacing at Boyd. "Do you want to save Lindus' life Boyd? I don't know why you do this Boyd. It could be so easy and so much nicer between us."

He then started walking towards Boyd, knife in hand, waiting for a reaction.

“Wait,” Boyd begged, not sure what to say next. He was in the worse situation he had ever been in his life. Mexico seemed like an easy task compared to this. If he could only go back in time knowing then what he did now. He could have been a braver man and none of this would have ever happened. Well to him. Ives would have still come to Fort Spencer; he would have still killed the others one by one. And Boyd wouldn’t have been there to stop him. Of course, he wasn’t able to stop him now either. “What are you saying, it is me or Lindus? Or if I join you you will spare him?”

He wasn’t sure what choice was being offered here or what decision to make. If it was between him or Lindus, he knew what answer he would give and it would be a selfish one. He didn’t want to see Lindus dead, but if he died here and now, there would be no one to stop this madness. He also feared death. Ives knew that. He wasn’t sure what Ives wanted more, for Boyd to beg him to kill Lindus instead or for Boyd to give in. He would, if only to spare Lindus now. It wouldn’t be real, but he would pretend..

Lie? He wasn’t a good liar and he knew he was a step away from being just like Ives. A few more bowls of stew and he feared he might forget why he wanted no part in this. If Hart could be convinced, so could he with time. He was weak, cowardly. At least he thought he was. He was so filled with shame that he didn’t fully comprehend that he had walked back to Fort Spencer alone and was one of two survivors the cave massacre. Of course he also questioned how much of that was his strength and will and how much was Reich’s blood and flesh. And how much of it was the fact Ives let him live. “I know I can not escape this place without you, Ives. I know its die or give in. I do not want to die but..”

Give in? He winced. His only way out of Fort Spencer was to die. He couldn’t run away and they would never set him free. It was die and take Ives with him. There was no other option. Giving in? It was wrong.. and yet, his only means of survival right now. Temporary. But could be stay sane during that time or would he be like Hart and Ives and just not care anymore?

Ives stopped cold when he heard Boyd's offer to join him. He knew that Boyd would say anything to save his life right now. Boyd was lying and stalling. He wanted to save that kiss ass Lindus' life. Ives still could not understand why Boyd cared so much. But Boyd lying to him made his blood boil. He knew that Boyd would indeed pretend to join him for a while but would kill him at the first opportunity. Unless...

Ives decided to pretend to believe him. And pretend to save Lindus' life for now. He had no intention of that later on.

"All right Boyd." he said and sighed. "But you know what needs to happen soon. There is no way around it. If it will be no one else it will be you. That I promise."

Ives put his knife away and looked at Boyd one more time and smiled sweetly. Then he walked to the door and saw that Lindus was still out there. He wondered how he was feeling; after all he did have some of the stew.

"Major Lindus. Could you do something for me? I would do it myself but I thought that it might give you a chance to warm up some. I think that I am all right here for a short time. I need you to go to the kitchen and get some food for Boyd here. If he does not eat then he might not make it. Some of the stew might help and whatever else that you see fit. Also, could you get a bowl of stew for me as well? I am thinking Boyd might warm up to me if we can enjoy a nice quiet meal together." He laughed inside at that thought. "Then I do need you to stay for awhile after that." He gave a sympathetic look and stepped toward the man and spoke softly. "I apologize for my attitude earlier Major. I just wanted to show Boyd who was in control. I meant no disrespect."

Lindus said a few words then started walking to the kitchen to fetch the food.

"Oh and Lindus." Lindus turned. "Don't be gone too long." Ives said and smiled.

Ives then went inside to Boyd. Boyd was looking at him probably wondering what he had done. He took a chair near Boyd and sat down and took out his cigar.

"Hungry Boyd?" he asked. "The food will be here shortly."

Without giving an answer, Boyd stared at Ives, making a conscious effort not to show any emotion on his face. If he revealed his hesitation at consuming anymore of that stew, Ives would know he was faking. Yet, if he seemed to eager, the same result would come. Ives was not a dumb man nor was he easily fooled. Trying to trick him was like toying with a flame that you knew could become a raging fire at any second.

He could not help but ask ‘why me’, but it was different now. Before he was asking why Ives was blaming him for these crimes, now he was wondering why Ives wanted him to join them so badly. Did the man know something he didn’t? “Who is the doctor?” he asked finally, raising his eyes to meet Ives. “He has an accent similar to yours,” he noted, not revealing anything the doctor had told him in confidence. “Do you know him from before?”

Had Boyd truly joined Ives’ cause he would have suggested forgetting about Lindus. Lindus would do whatever it was that Slauson told him to do. He was easy to control. It was Slauson and that woman that would be a problem. Lucy. If this was Boyd’s operation, she would be the first to die and then Slauson would be forced to convert, but it wasn’t his choice. Thankfully. He didn’t want to know how far he’d go if he did fully give in.. now he’d eat, but merely for survival. As a last resort. He wasn’t one of them, he kept telling himself that over and over as if repeating it would make it true.

Ives was surprised at Boyd's question about the doctor. He had never met the man before. But Ives kept his face steady. If Boyd was confused about something or felt that there were secrets it was all the better. Ives had more power if Boyd thought that he was in danger or if he thought that other people were in with Ives. That would make him more cautious of them. It did make Ives wonder what the doctor had said to Boyd to make him wonder though. He would have to keep his eye on him.

Ives did not answer his question but lit his cigar and inhaled his smoke.

"I didn't know I had an accent Boyd. But thanks for noticing." he said and exhaled. "Don't you worry about the Doctor. He'll be well taken care of." Boyd then remained silent. Ives wished that he would lighten up a little. He knew there was a brain in there somewhere, a quite intelligent brain actually. He knew he could be a good recruit if he would just let go. He really hoped that he didn't have to kill him. He had debated who to kill in this jolly little group of souls. The doctor. Martha. Lucy. He could not kill Lucy yet for Hart would become madman and would not hesitate on trying to kill him. He needed Hart as an ally right now. Yes he could tease Hart, make him jealous, and maybe even more if the woman permitted it, but no he could not kill her. Pity, he thought, he knew that she would be trouble. He did not really want to kill Martha, he had a strange affection for her, even though she was a threat to him, especially if she found out the truth. He figured that he would probably have to kill her eventually, which did not make him happy, but not now. He wanted to get to know the Doctor more; even though he was a possible candidate for stew, he was also a possible recruit. So that left Slauson, Lindus, and Boyd. Lindus was the only possible choice right now, they needed meat. Sure he would be easy to control and would turn if the General turned but he couldn't afford to wait that long. Ives wished that he could wait and save Lindus for later, but right now, he was it. Hell, it wasn't personal. Ives wished to tell Boyd all this, but he was not one of them enough yet to get informed of any plans. Maybe someday...

"I wish I knew more about you Boyd,” Ives said and sighed. "I know you wonder why I haven't killed you, why I want you so bad." He left out the words "to turn" out on purpose. He was now just telling Boyd the truth. "I know you think I am disgusting, a despicable man. But there is a man in here somewhere Boyd. A man who understands what you are going through. I didn't have the greatest boyhood you see, and I know how it feels to feel beaten, exhausted, and trapped. That is part of why I feel so good now. I am in control, for a long time I had none. I joined the military as a service to my father, but there I found strength and became a damn good soldier and worked my way up to Colonel. I earned this title Boyd just as I have earned what I am now. I enjoyed what I did Boyd, just as I do now. Why put yourself though this? You could feel things that you have always wanted Boyd, be who you have always wanted to be." Ives leaned forward, his steely gaze on him. "The aversion to killing would go away Boyd, believe me, I found that out a long time ago. I know part of you is with me Boyd. Part of you wants this. And me."

Ives was inches away from Boyd now. Boyd had not looked away.

Ives had discovered that he had been getting closer to Boyd while he had been talking. He blinked once and wondered what Boyd was thinking. He hadn't turned away in disgust or pushed him away. In fact, he was looking at him just as intensely. Ives stayed where he was and remained silent, waiting for Boyd to make the next move.

Ives had joined the army in an attempt to impress his father. That made two of them and suddenly, knowing the man’s first name and history was making it harder for Boyd to hate him.

John Boyd had been the child of a high ranking officer and his home making wife. His mother had always been around, to protect him and take care of him and make sure he was well educated. His father worked more often than was home. But when he was home, all he talked about was the day his son would join the army. He expected Boyd to be as he was, a good soldier who never questioned orders. Boyd’s education, however, taught him to think for himself and question things.. like orders. Science and history dictated that it was all right to disobey, that change came from resistance and revolution and often, change was better. His mother had instilled good morals in him. She read the Bible a loud every single night. All three factors coupled together left him in the army, a free thinker and a morally upright man, which were three things that did not mesh together. Those three things had gotten him where he was today and left his father surely ashamed of him. His mother.. he didn’t even know what she would have thought of her son now.

She wouldn’t have been proud of her son abandoning his men in battle, even if she had taught him that killing was wrong. She wouldn’t have been proud of her son for eating the flesh of another person. More than once now. And she certainly would not under any circumstances approve of her son being attracted to another man.

And he was. And Ives had called it, just now and those large, dark eyes of his were burning down on him and Boyd was reminded of just how much he was attracted to Ives. It might not have been normal attraction.. but it was certainly there. Maybe it was how powerful Ives was that drew Boyd to stare, leer even and crave the man’s attention. Or maybe it was how much attention Ives paid him when no other man had paid that much attention to him before. Not even his own father had taken an interest in him until he was of age to join the army. But that too, was wrong. Morally and ethically wrong. Men do not find other men attractive. They marry women and settle down after long army careers and raise sons that they can drive mad with demands as his father did him. Boyd knew at a young age he would never be the man’s man his father was. Reich was more like his father than he could ever hope to be. He was set up for failure at birth, and yet, he wanted to please his father more than anyone else in the world.

When he’d first arrived at Fort Spencer, Hart told him to steer clear of Reich and yet, Boyd didn’t.. and for the same reason. If he could impress Reich, it was like impressing his father. He had just been so damn afraid of Reich that he never got a chance to impress the man.

But that was different than this. He wanted to impress Reich, he was not attracted to him.. not the way he was to Ives. Maybe it was the idea of giving in, the feeling of living on the edge that he wanted… whatever it was, it was wrong. He had been raised believing that, no.. knowing that it was wrong. And yet, he wanted that Lucy woman dead. Maybe it was because he knew she was a threat to their existence and maybe it was because she was a threat in another kind of way. Maybe he felt she was in the way? Either way, if he were of Ives’ mind, he would have killed Lucy by now. But he wasn’t Ives, he was John Boyd and he didn’t kill people.

Just about the time that sunk in, he realized he’d been silent for a while now. Too long. He had just been sitting there, on the floor, staring at Ives, moving his line of sight from one large brown eye to the next, just breathing.

“I can’t kill people, Ives. I do not have it in me.” It was a lie and Ives would know it. Boyd had taken a shot at him on that mountain. If Ives had been any normal man, Boyd would have killed him. He had it in him to kill, he just had to be in the right circumstance: cornered. He could kill, he just didn’t like to and he feared more than anything that eventually he would like it the way Ives did. Toy with his prey in the same manner. He had been on the other side of that. He knew how horrifying it was.

If he gave in completely, eventually he would lose all sense of right and wrong and give in to every primal urge he had – to kill, to eat, to take whatever it was he wanted. Just like Ives. And he knew full well that together they would be twice as wanton as Ives was now. Twice as powerful. Unstoppable. It was attractive, but still, that did not make it right.

He wet his lips and closed his eyes briefly to break the stare that had gone on for far too long. “At what point did you change?” he asked, opened his eyes once again, a little disoriented at first, and seeking Ives’ out. “At what point to you just give in? How did you?”

Ives backed away but he did not get up from the chair. He was amazed at what just happened. He was not quite sure if he even believed that it did. Boyd was attracted to him that was obvious but why? Was it the power or the man? Perhaps both. Ives grew up a strong man. He has never had a true relationship before, with a man or a woman. Oh yes, he had been with women but had never felt love. Perhaps his childhood ruined that chance, or his bastard of a father. With Boyd he wasn't sure what he felt. But it was something that ate at him, made him feel things that he certainly shouldn't. And now Boyd was asking him how to give in. Ives seriously thought about it for a moment and thought back.

He had killed the Indian scout because he had told him the Wendigo legend and as he had told Boyd, he just had to try. Ives had no power in his life up until he had joined the military, and there the orders that he had received were nothing compared to what he was used to. He excelled there and learned how to be cold. Combat taught him to have no remorse and he could take his anger out there, pretend that his enemies were his father, his mother, and just about everyone else he had ever met. He had liked that sense of power, something that exhilarated him, and when he heard of a chance to have ultimate power, he took it. When he ate the scout, along with the whole wagon party, he did feel changed and liked the feeling. He never really had to give in like Boyd because he never felt that it was wrong. He had paid his dues already and would take whatever he needed to feel good. To give in for him was long over. He was owed this reward. If he could he would visit home and make his father beg his forgiveness before he killed him and threw him in a stewpot. But home was far away and he hadn't visited there in a long time. It was kind of funny in a way, in some ways he had become exactly like his father. His father liked to torment before his punishments. He had liked toying with Amon, giving him fear, letting him know exactly what he had in store for him. Yes life was funny and maybe someday he would pay a visit to his home and say hello to his dear old pa.

"Give in Boyd. Forget about what is right and wrong, you have to not care. Give in to your wants and needs, if it feels good do it. Do you want to be remembered as a coward? Or do you want people to remember you as brave, strong, and admire you? Fear you even? Just let go of your conscious. If you do, I swear to you, you will not be hurt again."

Ives suddenly felt an urge to touch Boyd but pushed it aside. He did not exactly like these feelings, it was not like him.

"Try it Boyd. Just once. Eat without abandon, without guilt, and without shame. I know you have no reason to trust me. But in ways we are alike, we both had old men that weren't good for shit for one." Ives smiled, Boyd may not have had a father like Ives but he was sure as shit that Boyd did not have a close relationship with his. "Did you love your father Boyd? Does you father love you?"

Boyd shook his head, uncertain of the answer to that question. Ives was getting into his head. The man seemed to have an easier time of that than most. Few men got more than five words out of Boyd, but Ives knew the right questions to ask, the right things to say to make him want to speak. It was like he knew things.. unspoken things that no one else in the world knew. It scared John, and made him want to keep talking at the same time.

“I love him,” he answered finally. “I wanted to make him proud, but..” And of course, Ives had said the right things. What would make his father more proud than to find out his son was suddenly brave, strong, and admired? But he knew he could never face his mother. Not as he was now. A cannibal? No, he could never look her in the eye ever again. Of course, Boyd didn’t think he would ever leave Fort Spencer alive anyway. And God willing, the good Lord would forbid his mother ever come to see him here. “I do not know if he loved me. He was dissatisfied. I was appointed here and I saw him once before I left. Slauson had insisted I leave right away, but my father is a Colonel as well. He got word of it and showed up at San Miguel an hour before I was to leave for Fort Spencer. For an hour straight he told me how discontent he was with my behavior. How I had tarnished his family name. He said he wished that I was never born,” he confessed, looking downward, guilt ridden and ashamed. “Then he changed and said that he would have preferred he had a daughter instead. At least then, he said, he could have earned a dowry for giving away her hand in married, not earned disgrace by having a son sent to Fort Spencer.”

He swallowed, looking back to the man he both despised and revered. “The last thing he said to me was ‘don’t write.’ It is not just the snow and mountains that keep me here, Ives. I have nowhere else to go.” And that was it. What was left? What was he holding on to? Some moral code that had been driven into his head as a child? He didn’t want to let go of that code because it was all he had. Now, however, there were other options.. so why was it so hard? Why could he not just give in, as Ives and Hart had? What was holding him back? Besides his own cowardice.

‘It’s not courage to resist me Boyd. It’s courage to accept me.’

Yes, Ives was getting into his head and slowly right from wrong were starting to blur. Without seeing Slauson, Lindus or the others standing in front of him, he was finding it easier to imagine killing them. Or at least standing back and letting Ives kill them. But it would be different when he saw them again. He would do anything to spare them. Except the idea of killing Ives was becoming harder and harder to accept now. Ives had been a monster in his eyes and now.. now he was a man. A mad man, but still a man.

“I do not think we can get away with it,” he noted.

‘We?’ He thought silently. ‘Jesus Christ, John.’

“Even if the general turns, the murder of the others will not go away. They will want to hang someone. Toffler, Reich, Knox, Cleaves.. they all had families. They will want answers.” The idea that Reich had a family was a frightening one. There was a father Boyd did not want to meet. What had Reich’s father done to him to make him the way he had been? “We need a plan. Some way to prove me innocent and yet not make you or Hart seem guilty.”

He was not sure if he was saying these things to get out of the mess he was in now or to actually help Ives. Either way, it served his purpose. He just had to either recall who he was or forget who he was. Both would be hard. “I still do not think I can kill anyone. At best I day dream of it. But if you spare me, I can help you.”

He needed an example, a lie or truth, at this point it did not matter which. He would sort out his own motivations later, when he was alone. With Ives in front of him, he almost wanted to give in, but the moment one of the others, the innocent were in front of him, he’d want to resist. He needed to sort it out alone, with no outside influences. But he still needed an example. He had to ensue Ives realized he had worth, be it false or real.

“The horses,” he noted, swallowing again. “Hart killed the horses which left Knox and I unable to leave. If you want to ensure those here can not escape, you .. or Hart.. need to kill the horses.”

~~

Lindus huffed his way back to the dining hall, muttering under his breath. Ives' manner had improved, at least, but what did he think Lindus was? A waiter? An errand boy? Certainly he was used to such treatment from General Slauson, but at least in toadying to him, he could hope for a quicker promotion. Being anything other than courteous to Ives was expecting a bit much.

Still, the man was within his rights, and Lindus wasn't there at the Fort on vacation, that much was certain. He still thought he might mention it to the General when he had a chance to speak to him later, however.

Lindus entered the dining hall and felt the warmth of the heat immediately; it would be harder to go back outside now that he was defrosting. The room appeared quiet, though it appeared General Slauson was about to say something, since all eyes were upon him.

Lindus saluted informally and stated, "Excuse me sir. Colonel Ives has sent me for more stew. He thinks if he and Boyd have time for nice friendly dinner, Boyd might come to his senses and stop calling him this Colquhoun man." It occurred to Lindus that true, this Colquhoun person may be responsible, and he looked similar to Ives. Still, how could anyone mistake Ives for anybody else?

Lindus didn't try to hide his slight annoyance with Ives from the rest of the room. "Rather unnecessary, if you ask me. But I'll go ahead and bring him what he asked for, if it's all the same with you." He looked at Martha, as he thought she should be the one running the errand in the first place. "Could you help set up a tray for me, Martha? I'll take it over."

Martha nodded; as usual, it seemed there was always something keeping her from completing a warm meal in one sitting. She went over to the kitchen to retrieve some more bowls of stew, along with some potatoes and a little chicken. Lindus stood by, in case the General had any comments or orders to give before he left.

"Mmm," the general considered. Who among the regular inhabitants of Fort Spencer would be most useful to the doctor at this point? He'd seen Boyd already, and Ives was too new to the fort to have much useful information. Martha might have been good, but trying to get conversation out of her was like pulling teeth, and truthfully, Slauson wasn't sure how much English she knew. The obvious choice was Hart.

Slauson had noticed Hart glaring daggers at him for smiling at Lucy. As the higher-ranking officer, it made him annoyed and strangely cocky. Hart couldn't possibly be jealous. Surely he realized that the young lady was only interested in Hart's fatherly nature. Hart's attention probably embarrassed her, and she was just being polite to him until she could get rid of him. Slauson had no illusions that an old dog like himself could attract young women who were interested in him and not the money his high rank brought. He didn't know why he was even thinking about these things all of a sudden. He had a wife. He had children. In fact, before he'd left to be stationed in San Miguel for the war, there had been the possibility of grandchildren. Anyhow, he'd long since adopted a 'look but don't touch' policy with pretty young women like Lucy.

"Yes Dr. O'Donnel, I believe it would be good for you to talk with Colonel Hart next, whenever he has a moment," Slauson decided. "Memory loss is a serious thing. I had a good soldier once, Sammy Jankis, whose career was ruined by it after a serious head injury. Besides, colonel," Slauson added with a wink, "you'll start losing your memory soon enough to old age. No need to accelerate the process, eh?" Slauson chuckled, pleased with his joke. It was meant to sound like a light-hearted jest, but it was also a sly jab at Hart in return for his attitude, just to remind him that no matter how he tried to make himself up for Lucy, he was old, and would continue to get older, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Lindus listened to the General's remarks as he waited for Martha to finish setting up a tray for him to take back to Ives and Boyd. He glanced over at poor Lucy, who seemed to be made most uncomfortable with the remark about Hart's age. He'd had no intention of feeling sorry for her, not after the ghastly way she'd behaved earlier. Women simply should not do such things, not in any situation. Still, she seemed quite collected now, even a little ashamed, so he decided to take pity this once. After all, she was a pretty little thing, and being caught between two old warhorses like Slauson and Hart couldn't be pleasant.

"Miss Lucy," he said, nodding a hello to her. "I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

Martha thrust the tray out to Lindus without a word, wishing he would just go so she could finish her dinner. She found that the less English people thought you could speak, the less they demanded of you, and the more stupid they assumed you were. Especially Lindus' type.

Lucy thanked Lindus politely as he moved to the door; he may have been wound as tight as a pocket watch and nowhere near as strong a man as she preferred, but he was a gentleman, at least.

Lindus carried the tray back out towards the shack, hoping he would find all well when he got there. After all, having to draw a weapon when your hands were full with a tray would be difficult. Arriving at the shack, he kicked at the door lightly, unable to grasp the doorknob due to holding the tray.

Hart fixed General Slauson with an icy stare, his lips curled into a slightly feral smile as he said, "In my experience, General, it is only those men who possess a lack of mental dexterity in their youth that suffer from the loss of such things in their dotage." Hart continued to stare at the General. His hands still itched to wrap themselves around Slauson's neck. It was not just the man's leering glances in Lucy's direction that set his thoughts upon such a murderous course. That was only the ignition. Hart had resented Slauson for a very long time, but before, he had been too old and too deeply entrenched in politeness to dare show or even acknowledge that he felt such a thing.

Hart had watched Slauson for the past fifteen years, coming up to Fort Spencer and parading around Hart's broken and disgraced men like a cock in a hen house. He had loathed such behavior. Yes, the men under his command were flawed, but so was every man. His men merely hadn't the sense or the dishonesty to hide it. Hart hated the way Slauson treated his men, but he couldn't say a word. Not if he wanted to keep his command. Hart knew that he could have very easily been placed into a military prison for his beating of General Fitzsimmons.

Yet, Hart's reasons were personal as well. He resented Slauson's career. Hart was a better man than he, or at least he thought. Better educated, better spoken. Had it not been for his indiscretion, he would have easily surpassed Slauson in rank years ago. In his opinion, Slauson was only a general because he could lead men on a battlefield and he had friends in high places. It was still Hart that they had come to in the past fifteen years when a more difficult plan of attack was needed. And Hart had had the same friends in high places. That was why he was here and not rotting in prison.

For years, Hart felt that Slauson had lorded his position over him. Hart had been banished to this wilderness outpost, never to advance, never to leave until they carried his body back to his brother's family in Ohio. Yet Slauson had had a brilliant career and if everything went well in this war, he was looking at another bump up the food chain. Even now, with his comments, Slauson was trying to remind Hart that he was above him. And the old Hart would have smiled over his irritation and kept his mouth shut and his gaze averted until the feeling of temper passed.

But he was no longer the same old Hart. He was stronger, faster, and braver than he had ever been. If he only thought himself Slauson's better before, he *knew* he was his better now. How easy would it be to reach across the table and remind Slauson of this fact with his fists and his hands? Hart was a man lethal with his hands. General Fitzsimmons could testify to that. His face had never been the same afterwards. Hart heard tell that the man had had all the mental capability of a five-year-old after he was done with him.

But Hart held himself in check. Just for now. But soon, very soon, Hart would stop being polite. For now, Hart smiled good-humoredly at Slauson, as if he was amused by his little joke about old age, before looking at the doctor, "I would be pleased to submit to any inquiry that you propose, doctor. I am quite eager to remember what has happened. Someone should pay for what happened to my men." Hart moved to say more, but instead his eyes watched Lindus come in, talk of fetching more stew, and walk out. Curious. Had Ives finally broken Boyd after all? Hart fond himself oddly disappointed. He blinked the emotion away and looked again at Miles, "After dinner, shall we have our first session?"

Miles heard the General propose he speak with Hart, and while he felt an odd sort of dismay at not hearing a different name he couldn't place, he smiled and nodded. The itching feeling that Slauson was doing this out of a different volition than just for necessity was echoed by the fact that only an hour ago Hart claimed to have forgotten everything. Would Miles be able to get it out of him?

"I would be pleased to submit to any inquiry that you propose, doctor. I am quite eager to remember what has happened. Someone should pay for what happened to my men. After dinner, shall we have our first session?" asked Hart, a mild apathy and sarcasm floating around that Miles noted but said nothing.

"As soon as you're ready, Colonel," he replied, raising his cup slightly and grinning warmly. He had the habit of doing that to strangers, treating them with absolute familiarity and the highest respect he could muster. He rarely treated those he knew well so warmly, mostly because they got to know him and how he had lived. As they treated him like some dynamite that never exploded but surely, since it had a fuse, it would be necessary to watch it like a hawk--he became lost to human contact. But since he would be with this group of people for likely the rest of his life, there was no way to keep up the game. All he had to do was keep them from knowing anything whatsoever about him.

He continued eating, losing his appetite quickly. Sooner than he believed he would, he set down his fork and leaned back in his chair, napkin to mouth.

"Thank you very much, Martha, that was an exquisite welcoming dinner," he smiled, once more entirely more kindly than required. "May I be excused? As soon as you're ready, Colonel Hart."

Lucy, sensing the earlier tension between General Slauson and Colonel Hart was slow at abating, had been considering some friendly conversational question for Dr. O'Donnel. But oddly, something about him gave her trouble coming up with anything to ask. She got the feeling that any basic question, no matter how well-intentioned and casual -- where he was from, how did he like the military, etc. -- would not be happy ones for him, despite the pleasant facade he took pain to keep in place.

She kept quiet, remembering the formal dinner manners her parents had taught her from childhood (she called them "guest manners") and gave Martha a look; she could identify with what the Indian woman must feel often -- a sense of displacement and isolation in this man's world. On the trail and in San Miguel, she preferred a tougher front; it made the men treat her more like one of their own. They could forget that she ever wore a dress long enough to buy something from her.

Martha mumbled a quiet thanks to the doctor as he excused himself, eyes following him as he left the room. Then, she turned to Colonel Hart. Unable to resist, Martha finally blurted out in as off-the-cuff nature as she could muster, "You look good, Colonel Hart. The mountain air has done wonders for you." She took another pensive bite of chicken.

~~

Ives listened to all this in silence. He wondered if he knew John's father in all of his military time. He did not remember a Colonel Boyd but he had not really been paying attention either. No doubt he was a man who ate, drank, and shit the military. Boyd had been a disappointment to him, as well as he had been to Ives all this time. He did however feel sympathy for John, he knew how much you could want your father to love you and treat you like you made him proud. And no matter what you did or what you accomplished, it wasn't enough. Yes he understood that, but he had gotten past it. He became something far further than his father could ever imagine. And that made him feel proud. He did not know what his father would think of him now, but being the sick bastard he was, he would probably try to accomplish the same fate.

He listened as Boyd stated that he did not think he could kill anyone. How he didn't think we would get away with it. Ives zoned in on the word we. That was the first time he had ever used that word, especially referring to himself and Ives. Ives felt his eyebrows raise and his eyes narrow. Is it true what he was hearing? Here Boyd was even coming up with a plan. Ives still didn't trust John as far as he could throw him but maybe he was coming around. He knew that my feeding him some more stew would make him stronger, and more of a match for Ives, but he still wasn't worried. He also knew that the more you ate, the more you lost yourself. And he needed Boyd to lose himself, he needed it.

Ives stood up and shook his head. "I know you don't think that you are strong John, that you are a coward." He paused for a long time. "But I don't think that you are. I think your father was a fool for not seeing that in you. He was a fool for throwing you away. I think that you have great potential. For once in your life, why don't you do something that makes you happy? Forget your father, you will never be able to please or impress him. If you stay here John, and accept me, you will be more than your father could ever imagine. Perhaps Boyd, we could even pay him a visit, so he could see that you have become far above what he could ever be." He stopped again and said quietly. "He would love you John."

He heard footsteps approaching the door and knew that it must be Lindus returning with the stew.

"Please think about it John. Try once, just once to accept me. And then see how you feel."

He then started walking to the door to accept the food. He opened the door and found Lindus looking not so pleased about fetching the food and that he had to stand outside in the cold again.

"Thank you Major." He said and accepted the food. "Would you mind standing out here for just a little while longer? I am still not certain that Boyd will not attack me. I need to speak to him alone for just awhile longer than you may join us if you would like." And with that he shut the door and turned toward Boyd, walked toward him and placed the full bowl of stew in front in him and smiled. "Bon Apetite."

Boyd’s mind was lingering so much on Ives’ words that he barely realized Lindus had returned until the bowl of stew was placed on the floor in front of him. Ives was waiting, planning to watch him eat and ensure he ate. The smell alone made his stomach turn with craving, want and disgust. But he had to. If he wanted to live and get out of the chains, he had to take the bowl and eat.

With shaky hands, he reached out, revealing the skin around his wrists, which were wore from trying to break free and now covered in dry blood. He took the bowl quickly as to hide it, but Ives didn’t miss anything. He’d know exactly what those marks were and where they had come from. “I tried to break free,” he confessed, taking the spoon in his right hand and balancing the bowl with his left. There was no sense in lying. Ives would know. “But Hart stopped me. I will not do it again if.. if you get me out of this room,” he requested, looking up at Ives with inquiring eyes as he slowly raised the spoon to his mouth and took the first, small bite.

~~

Hart looked quickly at Martha after she asked her question, his eyes examining her face. Did she know what he was now? Is that what her comment was about? But, as usual, Martha was about as easy to read as a book written in invisible ink. Hart had never been able to tell what she was thinking. He offered her a smile and said quietly, "I think perhaps a brush with death makes a man savor life that much more is all." He held the Indian woman's eyes and said softly, "I am so sorry, Martha." Hart stared at her for a few more moments before looking away, back at the young doctor.

"I would be quite glad to submit to an interview now. Shall we use my former office?" Hart stood and saluted General Slauson reluctantly. He looked to Lucy, unsure of whether he should leave her alone with the general, but decided that he had little choice in the matter. He offered a nod to the ladies and thanked them both again for the food that he had not touched. Afterwards, Hart turned to leave, stepping again into the chill winter wind that had only grown colder as the sun sank beneath the hills.

Outside of his old office, Hart grabbed an armful of kindling from the bin and walked into the dark and cold building. "You might want to keep your jacket on, Doctor. At least until I get a fire going." Hart loaded the wood into the hearth and worked to start a modest fire to at least somewhat warm the office. Before the trip into the hills and the fateful events outside that cave, Hart hadn't been able to fetch his own wood. Not for the past year anyway. The same arthritis that had near crippled his father struck him as well. His men had helped. Toffler often playing the Good Samaritan and bringing a few armloads of wood for him the evenings. The young man would rock in place, singing Hart whatever new hymns he had come up with while he started a fire.

Some nights, it would not be Toffler, but Reich waiting for him instead. Reich would start the fire while he would set up the chessboard. The man was quite good at chess. Hart would prattle on while Reich and he played. Often Reich would say few words, instead only offering occasional smiles and nods as Hart spoke. He seldom offered any stories of his own. Reich was a man of few words, but Hart did not mind. He was just happy to have someone to play chess with.

The flames slowly came to life underneath Hart's hands. He slowly rose to his feet and gestured at the chairs just in front of the fireplace as he shuffled to his desk to retrieve the bottle of alcohol that he and Lucy had shared just after her arrival. Hart returned to the hearth with the bottle and two clean glassed, offering one to Miles as he said with a smile, "A drink, Doctor? I can assure you that it will warm you faster than these flames."

~~

Slauson saluted Hart and the doctor in farewell, finishing up his last few bites of stew. He'd enjoyed the little confrontation with Hart. It reminded him of his younger days, and all the barbed conversations that military politics sometimes involved. He couldn't explain his change in attitude. He'd started the trip cranky and exhausted and now he was chipper and cracking jokes. He had expected to be exhausted at this time and really starting to feel the physical strains of his trip, but it wasn't the case. In fact, when he eventually went to bed it would be out of habit, and not because he was too tired to go anymore.

There was something to that horse stew. Every bowl improved some part of him: his disposition, his old aches, his new ones. The more he ate, the better he felt. 'Wait until the morning,' Slauson thought to himself. 'That's when I'll feel everything. At least I'm not trying to hide my age.' What was Hart doing to himself? He couldn't be coloring his hair and wearing make-up could he? If that was the case, Hart had probably been away from civilization too long. Maybe the doctor could explain to Slauson the puzzling phenomenon of a person's gray hair going back to its original color.

"Well Miss Lucy," he said, "Now that I'm finished my meal I'd love to buy some of your tobacco from you. I believe I'll quickly go check on Lindus first." Slauson had considered forgetting about the tobacco, if Hart was going to be so touchy about anyone speaking to Lucy, but a rush of power reasserted itself. Who did Hart think he was trying to stop the general from doing anything? And besides, it would be a crime not to enjoy a pipe or two after such an exceptionally fine meal. Even so, Slauson tried to be as polite as possible to Lucy and not lecherous, just in case she went and reported his behavior to Hart later, or worse, Ives. Ives had enough to deal with than these childish antics.

Leaving the dining hall, he looked around for Lindus and found him looking cold and unhappy outside Boyd's quarters. "Lindus," Slauson called out as he approached the major. "Tomorrow morning if I'm not up by an hour after daybreak, I'd like you to knock on my door for me." Slauson noticed the barely suppressed irritation on Lindus' face, and sensed it wasn't directed entirely at him. "How are things going here?"

Lucy smiled at the General's business offer; it would do Hart good to see the man's interest in her was merely business-related. "Glad to, General. It's first rate, as usual. I've got some in my cabin-- I'll go grab it, and maybe a little brandy as well. It'll be good after a meal. Meet you over at the lodge in a few minutes, then?" She looked to Martha, as if for approval for early kitchen release, and the woman nodded at her. Lucy sensed that Martha would prefer to be alone for a while, anyway.

She headed over to her cabin and retrieved both the tobacco and brandy; before leaving the cabin, she noticed Reich's knife still on the table. She recalled then Martha's advice that she keep a weapon on her. If it was true that there might still be a killer loose, maybe it would be a good idea to keep it on her. She placed the knife back in its sheath and headed over to the lodge, looking forward to winding down in front of the fire. She noticed General Slauson and Lindus talking as she crossed the yard, and waved at them before entering the lodge.

Lindus, the inner warmth he'd experienced previously, was definitely beginning to feel the undeniable cold seeping in, especially in his toes and fingers. Of course, everyone in the dining hall had likely finished eating already, and by the time he returned, he'd get nothing but whatever cold leftovers the Indian woman left for him. He nodded at the General's orders, making a mental note for the morning.

"Colonel Ives is still dining with Captain Boyd. And if you'll permit me to say so, sir, I find his manners quite strange. One moment, he's barking orders at me, and the next, he's apologizing and saying it was an act for Boyd's benefit." He shrugged. "Boyd, on the other hand, was mumbling something about it being too late, now that we'd had the stew. Devil if I know what that was supposed to mean; we both ate the stew and it was more than perfectly fine. I think perhaps the man is mad."

Lindus added, nodding towards Lucy as she crossed the yard towards the lodge, "And I also noted that Miss Lucy allowed Colonel Hart to spend an inordinate amount of time in her cabin earlier. Perhaps it was necessary to calm her down, but what I saw next made me wonder." He raised an eyebrow suggestively. "When they did exit, he pulled her away for a moment, into the shadows. I cannot say what happened, but...I just thought you might like to keep abreast of my observations, sir. " He almost added that perhaps the General might relieve him, but on the other hand, he knew he would be blamed if Boyd did attack Ives and Lindus wasn't there to help fend him off. "I certainly will be sure to awaken you in the morning, though I'm sure you'll not have the need," he added with what he hoped was a confident smile.

Slauson nodded occasionally as Lindus spoke about his observations, suppressing his laughter at various points. Lindus was quite the busybody, which was a major factor in why Slauson kept him on. The general always liked to know what was going on around him, particularly things he might use later.

"Don't mind Ives' behavior. Perhaps he's still annoyed about that gunshot wound incident when he first got here. I wouldn't have even checked if that drunkard Knox wasn't such an unreliable witness." Slauson didn't worry about sounding blunt or harsh. He could speak freely in front of Lindus, and he certainly paid him well enough to ensure his confidentiality.

"I don't know what Boyd's problem with the stew is, though I seem to remember him not eating meat. He couldn't even eat his one measly steak at his promotion dinner. Perhaps he was hoping we would question him before we had eaten so we would be addle-brained with hunger. Or maybe it's because now that we know what a good cook Ives is, we won't be transferring him, since the fort lost Cleaves. And Boyd will have nothing to do but nurse this strange grudge he has against Ives until Boyd goes to military prison."

"As for Hart and Lucy, well.... just let them go about their business. There are plenty of other more suitable women for you Lindus. Lucy doesn't strike me as the type to be impressed by someone's position and money, especially if she thinks Hart has either one. She certainly could have settled down by now, but she's still riding the trails, so that should tell you something about the kind of wife she'd be."

Slauson noticed silence, or else very quiet speaking from Boyd's quarters. He was dying to know what was going on in there, but he restrained himself from peeking. "It seems to be going well in there, judging by the sound, or rather, the lack of it," Slauson commented, gesturing to the shack. "I hope the new colonel is making progress. I know there must be some way to handle or control Boyd, and maybe Ives will be the one to find it. I know I'm at a loss."

"Well, I won't disturb them. I'm going back to the lodge for a smoke or two, and then eventually to bed. It's been a long day, as you know. Just remain here until Ives releases you. There should still be a bit of stew or Martha's chicken left, since I know that's what you're worried about," he added with a chuckle. Slauson knew it irritated Lindus when others assumed that because Lindus was Slauson's servant, they could treat him like that too, particularly since Lindus came from money, just like Slauson.

~~

Miles scanned over the bottle briefly then shook his head. "No, thanks. Never touch the stuff." He'd seen what a few drinks can do to even the most tolerable people, and it was not exactly his taste. He almost had the nerve to advise the Colonel not to touch it himself, since apparently he had lost his memory, but thought it over his boundaries. He sat down to wait for the fire to warm up the room, leaning an elbow on the arm of the chair, drowsiness taking hold of him at the comfort of a fire. Snapping quickly out of it, he looked up at the oddly young version of senility before him. Hart seemed a kind man, paternal, generous...but a ghost of animalism flickered within, as well as paralyzed fear occasionally, but never out in the open. Just at times behind his eyes. Miles wanted this.

"Colonel Hart, if I recall correctly, there was a plea from Captain Boyd when you came in that you not be around Colonel Ives to give your testimony. Naturally, that gives me a bit of worry. I hope that in isolation with someone that, regretfully, doesn't know anything about you or what the story should be, I'll get what you do remember. All of it. I'm going to have to ask you that you take advantage of my confidentiality right now, and please tell me the entire truth, no matter how...dangerous," he muttered, remembering what Boyd told him. He couldn't tell what the man said, he promised not to...yet the vitality of the information seemed presented before him. He sighed," Unfortunately, as you may imagine, I only got John Boyd's name and his face to clean. I would be able to sleep tonight if you would give me more."

He kept looking Hart in the eyes, even if it wasn't returned. There was something not mentioned about Hart by Boyd---there were so many secrets he needed in order to continue. He was shocked at his need at that moment, the huge desire for information, to solve this case. He was never a detective, but he needed to be one now...and he almost liked it. The ability it gave him to communicate was thrilling, but he didn't show that he liked this game because he knew what it meant.

"If you could please begin with the arrival of Boyd all the way up to now, including your relationship with Lucy, if entirely vital," he continued, raising his eyebrows.

Hart shrugged when Miles turned down his offer of alcohol. He himself didn't drink much, but did not see much harm in a little nip here and there. Miles would learn. Fort Spencer got awfully cold in the night. He took the chair next to the young doctor's, watching him with bemusement as he began his `interview'. Bemused mostly because he honestly believed that Dr. O'Donnell thought he would confess his heart and soul to him right here and now.

His smile was still benevolent as he answered, "If I could easily remember anything, I would offer it at once. I believe that I suffered a head injury in addition to the stab wound that I incurred in the attack. I have very little recollection of the time period." Hart frowned and stared into his glass of whiskey, swirling its contents in consideration before continuing. "I do not know why Captain Boyd wished to speak with me out of earshot of Ives. I do know the poor boy has been sorely taxed." Hart shook his head. He knew exactly why Boyd wished to have him speak away from Ives and admired the thought behind it. Unfortunately, that was not the way to go about this right now.

He looked up at the doctor, smilingly gently. "I remember when he arrived. A man of few words, that Boyd. But the words he does say are very erudite, very thoughtful. We enjoy many a pleasant interaction upon his arrival. His intelligence is why I don't quite think the captain mad, merely… mistaken. Confused. I was made to believe that he possibly suffered an injury out there, too." Hart tried to look as concerned as possible and it wasn't a hard act. He was concerned. How much had Boyd told O'Donnell? Depending on what was said, this man could be in considerable danger as well. Hart was going to try his damnedest to buy some time and keep Boyd's head out of a noose at least for a little while.

"As for my `relationship' with Miss Cort, that has nothing to do with this interview or my memory loss and I would like to ask why you should think that my acquaintance with her should pertain to this matter in any whatsoever?" Hart's brows lifted and he kept a smile on his face, but his tone was colder, a little less friendly than before. This was not jealousy or worry that colored his thoughts of Lucy. He merely wished to keep her out of this mess as much as possible. She was an innocent and Hart was determined to keep her that way.

Miles grinned. "To answer that directly, I have no idea. I clearly am without any knowledge of any of you. For all I may really know, Ms. Cort could be a princess from Arizona and you might be some mass murderer---not that I think that, mind you, so don't get your shirt in a knot. With her recent outburst that I still don't have an explanation for, I am entitled to be curious, as well as inquisitive, Colonel--if you don't mind me saying," Miles replied calmly and as unguarded as he could. But he was becoming impatient with the Colonel. Victims of memory loss presented themselves differently than this--either he had a new case or he was faking, and Miles was willing to bet on the second one.

"So Boyd arrived, was quiet, and then.. ? I believe Slauson has provided me with the statement that Boyd has called upon someone named Colqhoun to blame the events on--do you remember any such man, or is that merely part of the tale? As I have told you, Boyd never elaborated upon this with me, so I could use all the information you can possibly remember, no matter how trivial. But if you'll allow me to draw upon one of your statements---how long ago, as I'm sure you can guess the date if not remember, were you inflicted with these injuries---the, erm--head injury and stab wound?" He studied the man's eyes once more, then smiled again, this time express his embarrassments at the request he would make. "I should see the scars, if you please."

Hart's polite smile was more and more strained, his eyes fixed on the young doctor. "Miss Cort's outburst was in direct correlation to the fact that she believes that Boyd is the one that killed her friends, sir. She is a passionate woman, one who will not stand by idly while one she is made to believe is a murderer go unpunished for such crimes. While I do not support her actions, as there is no proof as yet that Boyd was responsible for these deaths, I do understand them as she is a creature of passion and strong feelings. Is that an adequate explanation or would you rather another?" Hart blinked at the doctor, his smile still fixed on his face as if it were pinned to his lips.

"I remember the name Colquhoun, but I cannot place a face with the name. I wish I could for the mystery would be solved and my men's deaths would be avenged, but as it is, I simply lack the information that you are asking after and that fact will not change no matter how many different manners in which you ask it. I do not recall the exact date of my injuries. I don't even recall my injuries, Dr. O'Donnell. I can see that you do not believe me, a fact that I believe is unsupported by my actions. I do not remember my injuries and I do not remember the activities that occurred to cause them. Isn't it supposed to be *your* job to draw these things out of me?"

Hart wasn't quite sure how to handle showing Miles his `scars', simply for the fact that he did not have them. This was something he would have to discuss with Ives. "Doctor, if you will forgive me, I thought tonight was reserved only for interview purposes. While I have no qualm against showing you what remains of my injuries, I do take issue with being made to do it in this dimly lit and quite cold cabin. If you wish, we may set aside a time tomorrow and I will give you free reign to look me over."

To further distract the doctor from asking questions that Hart could not answer right now, he took another sip from his glass and fixed his icy eyes on Miles again. "If I might be so bold, I would ask you a few questions myself, Doctor. Just to satisfy an old man's curiosity. Why are you here? I get the feeling that you are to be stationed here and, in my experience, the army does not install men that it trusts or could be put to use elsewhere in a place like Fort Spencer. What did you do to make the army not trust you, Doctor O'Donnell?"

Miles watched as Hart became colder and blunter with his answers, taking offense, even. He couldn't comprehend how one could be so irritable unless one had reason to conceal, especially since there had been no provoking from O'Donnel. Miles turned his eyes to the ground at the mention of him arriving there for a reason. He sighed, then looked back up at the Colonel, that fake smile still upon him, but Miles didn't dare smile.

"Miss Cort's actions have been made clear to me now, and I thank you very much for the explanation. As well, I only intended to get some idea of when you might have encountered whatever attacked you--be it within a week or an hour of the date, but I completely understand that you cannot recollect. I am sorry for creating any more stress upon you Colonel," he replied as respectively and kindly as he could manage, his voice wavering. "It is my duty, however, Colonel, not to be a bloody psychiatrist for your information. I was sent here as a physicist. However, since I have studied all areas of medicine as thoroughly as I can of my years, General Slauson somehow deemed me fit to practice it. If you haven't noticed, I have been trying to draw this information from you because I quite simply cannot believe for the life of me that you have lost your memory. I'm not saying you're faking, I never said that, but I think you are capable of recollecting what happened, even if you won't. I'm not going to force you any more until it dawns upon you that you might be able to tell me. I don't want your chuffing heart and soul spilled, but I need information. If I can't get it from you, I'll have to wait for Boyd, who currently is being called insane. If I can't get it from him, I clearly have very little alternative but to collect as much trivial information from everyone else who has ever known those at Fort Spencer."

He sighed once more, standing up and moving to the fireplace. "My being sentenced to Fort Spencer was because of a mistake. The army never trusted me, it's amazing I got this far. I never gave them reason, however. I tried beyond my abilities to meet their standards, I needed a job badly. But...I did lie about my age to be there. They only hired doctors 3 years older than I, and three isn't a huge number, but when it comes to forgery--anything goes. When they found out three years later, they began to question my motives. I played it straight, and I did such a good job they wouldn't dream of letting me go. But then I made a little.....slip up," he muttered, turning around and looking at the Colonel. Would he believe him? Would Miles be able to tell the story again and again? How long until he'd start giving up on it, taking responsibility? He felt weary of pushing it on the assistant, the drunk assistant who didn't even know Miles had that night left the grounds to meet someone...that one person. There were only ten patients, and that night Miles forgot all about them just to see the one man he didn't even know. But he was sick of lying. Besides, he had to set an example for Hart--if he could tell the truth, maybe Hart should too.

"Remind me why I told you this when I'm done..." he laughed sardonically, walking over to pour himself a drink, hand trembling. "I left the night I was supposed to be taking care of my men. I received a telegram that morning from someone extremely special--someone who I didn't even know the name of. I only had ten patients--broken legs, fractured arms, dislocated shoulders, and concussions--nothing extremely fatal. I didn't really believe, however, that my assistant could take care of it--he was blind drunk every single minute of the god damn day, except for tea. But...I didn't care for some reason...I never thought I would actually abandon my post...leave all those men for dead or at least let their injuries go untended...but I needed to see him. So I left, my bag and all my tools in the tent with my assistant. I stayed out all night and into the afternoon of the next day before I came back to find them all dead--overdosed, and my assistant for the first time I had ever seen him in my life--sober. When inspection came and they found all my patients deceased and no evidence to suggest that my assistant had done it, I not daring to announce I had abandoned my post...well, you can imagine how they viewed me. I was sent back home--well, I never really had a home, I was sent back to the quarters without a definite sentence as there was no evidence to suggest that either I or my assistant had killed those men. For a time I floated around, waiting for them to either let me go or sentence me to death or whathaveyou...but then Major Knox died and I was sent here for the rest of my life..."

He finished his story and his second glass, then looked over at Hart, his mind aching at the thought that he actually told someone. He waited for a response, tense and wary that Hart might tell anyone just to see the doctor whom he appeared to dislike strongly be demoted or sent somewhere with even more lunatics...where he belonged.

"I dearly wish that I had information to offer you, Doctor. Perhaps the source of irritation stems only from the fact that my impairment causes me vexation." Hart's tone gentled a bit as he continued. His true source of vexation was that he wasn't sure where to step yet. The path was dark and he a blind man wandering off in danger of misstepping and causing grievous injury to those who deserved it not. The doctor was included in that number. In a way, Hart did wish to confess what he knew and were there not innocent lives at stake, he might have. Yet, there were. Lucy, Martha, even the good doctor, all stood at risk of being slaughtered if he took an uncalculated step on this path.

Another reason that Hart's harsh tone eased was simply in the relaying of Miles' story. He didn't feel sorry for him, but he did sympathize. "We all make mistakes, Dr. O'Donnel. Human passion is one of the dominating causes of human error. Yet a passionless life defeats the purpose of life, in my opinion." Hart blinked up at the man, adding softly, "I nearly beat a man to death. I was acquainted with the man's wife in a manner that he did not deem appropriate. And perhaps it was not, but human passion cares little for propriety. Said man made inflammatory remarks to the detriment of both my character and that of his wife, to which I took offense. So, in a fit of rage, I rendered the man injured. Said man was not only a bastard, but a General as well."

Hart finished the whiskey in his glass in one swallow and rose to refill it, bringing the bottle back to the fire in hopes of luring Miles back to its warmth. "I should have been escorted immediately to the brig and been subsequently ushered into the afterlife on the end of a noose for such actions, but, fortunately for me, I possess talents that the army still had use for. So, rather than face judgment by my Lord and Maker, I instead faced the judgment of the army. Exile." He smiled humorlessly and took another drink from his glass.

"Life here is not without its charms. There is plenty of time for contemplation and the duties are not onerous. I was so lucky as to have companions in my men that did ease the loneliness of my situation in some respects." Hart's smile dimmed with that sentence, yet brightened with his next, "There are other visitors, such as Miss Cort, that make life here bearable if not exactly enjoyable." Another swallow of whiskey. The burn of the alcohol seemed to burn away a little of the residual guilt in Hart's heart.

He glanced again at the Doctor, who indeed looked quite stricken. "If I might be so bold as to risk imposition on our burgeoning acquaintance once again for another question… who were you going to meet that night? You claim this person was extremely special and obviously worth the risk in leaving you patients, yet you did not know his name. May I ask what made this person so special?"

Miles listened as intently as he could between the cracking of the fire and the continuous pour of whiskey. That Hart, a man he would have deemed gentle and soft at first, had nearly beat a man to death shocked Miles back to earth. Took all kinds.

He focused his eyes on the floor, fingers tracing over the half-hidden scar on his neck out of sheer instinctual habit, and heard the many 'comforts' of Fort Spencer.

"At the risk of sounding rude, I sincerely doubt the possibility of comfort here at this point," Miles replied. "It is hardly a warm welcome to immediately annoy those you'll be spending the rest of your life with." He laughed mildly, mind still reeling back to the man's second, even more probing question. He didn't really want to answer this one, he knew once he had explained himself he would revert back to his natural state of complete and distraught irritation towards the person who would now know him. But he'd have to sooner or later.

"The man I went to meet...had saved my life. My father was a crude man, fond of all vices of men. He drank often and had partaken in the usage of drugs on a daily basis. He killed my mother when I was four, thrashed me senseless at least once a week until I left and used other...methods to try and drive me insane. He was an utterly diabolical and evil man...and I was a disappointment to him, so you can imagine how some things got. One night, he returned from the bar, incredibly over-sexed, over-drugged, over-drunk, furious, and he would claim over-worked, but we lived on the dole which he used only for himself. When he found me packing to leave, assuming he would be home later, he...lashed out. He beat me, shot me in the stomach, stabbed me twice, then attempted to cut my throat---but as I lie there on the floor something happened. I couldn't see, but I felt him being lifted off me and then I went unconscious. When I woke up I found a man, somewhat older than I but still young, watching over me. He fed me and took care of me, but we barely talked except about my history--what could have possibly driven my father to it. I never found out the true reason, I always assumed he would have wanted me gone--but the man knew. He said it was not good for me to know in my poor state, so he quickly decided never to bring it up again."

Miles looked over to Hart and smiled meekly. "Passion is a huge part of life, and I will be honest in saying that I admired this man beyond my comprehension. He healed me so quickly and miraculously--he taught me a great many things that I still have yet to review in my studies. He propelled me into my life...but very abruptly. The day after he said I had healed and we celebrated, he left in the early morning. I walked out into the street, all around the city, I looked all over for him. But he was gone, leaving the room in my name and occasionally sending money and books to help me. I turned sixteen that year... 6 years later he sent me the telegram and I met him once more, but I haven't seen him since."

Miles finished, eyes sore from the fireplace. He gazed around the room wearily, then back at Hart.

"...Are you to be trusted?" he asked, lips slightly curled. "I can only imagine how Slauson would think of me."

Hart listened to Miles' story, at once thinking himself lucky that his own father had been a good, decent man. The man was long dead; having died only a few short years after Hart entered the army. His mother followed not six months after. He was glad they were dead, glad to know that they would never know the depths that he had sunk to. They had hoped for him to have a glorious career in the army and he almost did. Almost.

Hart poured the doctor another glass of whiskey and set the bottle back between them. "Am I to be trusted? If you mean am I to be trusted not to relay your tale to Slauson, then rest assured in your confidence." Hart smiled thinly. Of all the people he might run to with Miles' story, the General was the last. "I am truly sorry for the troubles you have had to endure." Hart knocked back another swallow of alcohol, knowing her would need to stop before long. Yet the liquor suffused him with a sort of false warmth. It would not last, but against the cold, it was very nice.

"You were very lucky in your friend, Doctor. Am I to assume that he was a doctor as well and quite a skilled one for him to heal such extensive wounds?" Hart leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his knees to keep from reaching for the whiskey bottle again. "As for your comfort here at the fort, I will not tell you falsities to reassure you. Life here is hard, but in such an environment, petty annoyances can be overcome. One requires companions, even if they are the most unpleasant of people. Not that you are unpleasant, Doctor. I merely mean to suggest that men far less tolerable than you have been accepted here."

Hart glanced towards the door and then back at the young doctor. "I suppose it does not alleviate matters than you have come upon us in such a trying time with the murders and Boyd's condition and my own infirmities of mind coming into play." Hart sighed softly before lifting his eyes and saying with a cordial smile. "Let us end our interview, Thing would be better continued upon the morrow. You must be wearied from your journey."

~~

Lindus mulled over the General's comments, finding most of his explanations sound enough, save for his explanation of Boyd's odd statement about the stew. It was true enough that meat did not tend to agree with the captain; perhaps he couldn't bear the thought of anyone else partaking of it. In any event, that did bother him still.

General Slauson's comments about Lucy struck a chord with Lindus. While it was true he admired her beauty -- anyone stuck in San Miguel would; she was one of five women in town between the ages of twenty and forty who wasn't married or a whore -- he certainly wouldn't consider her marriage material. His family would disown him for sure, and he didn't think they would get along in the long run. She was far too headstrong and tempestuous for his liking. Women should be seen and not heard, as his father was fond of saying. He suppressed his slight annoyance at the General's remark, and merely gave a slight nod, as if in deference to Slauson's better judgment.

He looked towards the door of the cabin, wondering what was going on, and yearning for release to go to the dining hall. Still, the General's orders were the General's orders, and he was far more amiable about following them than Ives'. "Very well, General. I'm sure it can't take them much longer to finish their supper and discussions. Have a good evening, and I'll speak with you later, sir."

~~

In the lodge, Lucy fed the fire and gave it a good stoking with the bellows cramp to get it going full blast. This was the warmest outbuilding in the Fort, part of the original structure left behind by the missionaries, and though it was decrepit and parts of it clearly needed mending, the stone masonry did a better job at keeping the wind from seeping in. Alone for the first time since her bath earlier, Lucy exhaled a deep sigh and sat back in the rocker closest to the fire. She took a bottle of good brandy from the saddlebag containing her various wares, and after considering breaking into it, she thought the better of it; the General would be more likely to but it if it were closed.

Just in case he bought the bottle and wasn't in a sharing mood, Lucy took out her private flask and took a small swig to warm up her insides. Bourbon and whiskey were the best for keeping warm on the mountain in winter, and though she'd seen what it could do to those who lacked self-control, she found out the hard way fast that it paid to keep her wits about her and keep hr drinking to a minimum. Still, the comfort of a quick swig was something she couldn't deny herself from time to time.

She looked around the empty lodge and felt her heart sink in her chest. he pictured the room as it was the last time she'd visited: Toffler trying to compose a hymn on an organ he didn't even know how to play; George and Cleaves stoned and joking -- or perhaps George was napping, Martha looking on disapprovingly at Cleaves as he tied a bucket to the sleeping man's foot; Reich playing chess with Hart or reading across from her, exchanging a knowing glance or twitch of a smile once in a while; Knox would share a drink or two with her, tell her a few stories of his glory days, and then continue on with his drinking until passing out. Hart - well, Hart spent a lot of time in his office, or else playing chess mostly. She imagined that the time spent in his office was likely spent reading....or maybe writing. Perhaps even writing about her... She glanced at the connecting door leading to Hart's office over near the organ, wishing for his return and knowing it would cheer her.

Pulling her hair over one shoulder, she let the chill air bite at her neck, lost in memories. Something wasn't right here, she thought. The new doctor struck her as odd; was it his manners disturbing her? No -- he might be a bit odd and a bit brash, but some folk were just that way in talking, she knew. Perhaps it was the new Colonel, Ives. She kept trying to recall what it was about his eyes that bothered her. She had seen them somewhere before....yes, she remembered now. As a child, her aunt over in Bethlehem had given her a doll she'd gotten while on a trip to Philadelphia. How Lucy had hated that doll! She had never had such a fancy doll before; she was used to hand-sewn rag-dolls, the kind that warmed to you. This one had glassy, hard eyes, their black irises too large somehow. Yes, Ives' eyes reminded her of this doll.

Shivering slightly, she pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, trying to push these thoughts from her mind as she waited for the General's return.

Slauson left Lindus and went into the lodge, warmed by the fire and Lucy's greeting smile. He briefly wondered what Lucy and Hart had been doing in the shadows, if it even happened, but pushed it out of his mind and noted the wares visible so far. He'd already decided to buy tobacco, and he might as well buy the brandy he saw too. He didn't need it, as the cold didn't seem to bother him and he'd brought with him a bottle of whiskey from his office in San Miguel. But he knew it couldn't be easy for her to make a living the way she was, a lone woman riding around in the wilderness, trading here and there. So Slauson had already decided to buy a lot from her, even things he didn't need, and pay a little more than she asked for, just to help her out a little. He could give the extra things to Lindus as a reward for his patience, or distribute them among his men back at San Miguel.

Slauson felt a strong desire to take care of Lucy, but only in a fatherly way, he tried to remind himself. He suddenly found he secretly envied her life of freedom. Slauson was pretty much chained to his desk now, being too old for the battlefield, and would likely remain so until he retired and spent his declining years with his family. Then he'd have the time and money to do what he wanted, but would probably be physically incapable of doing much. It was a tragic irony. He wiped these dreary thoughts from his head and smiled cheerfully.

"Well, Miss Lucy! What do you have for sale today? Because I must say, I'm in a buying mood."

Lucy returned the General's smile as he entered and took a seat across from her by the fire. She had been on the verge of dozing off after her long day, and the resultant emotional and physical exhaustion was taking a heavy toll on her. The fire was beginning to warm and comfort her, and the sound of another voice in the lodge cheered her considerably. She had always thought of Slauson as an uncle; he was kind to her and even seemed to take an interest in her safety as long as she was in San Miguel, making sure his men stayed in line. Sure, he sneaked a little mischievous glance her way on occasion, but Lucy figured there was no harm in that; considering how infrequently he saw his wife, she knew he'd practically be a corpse not to. Like her own brother used to tease his wife, "Just 'cause you got me on a diet, Sal, don't mean I can't look at the menu."

*And* Slauson was a steady customer, which was always a plus in the higher ranks -- they were likely to introduce her to visiting officers who might be in need of supplies. "Hey, General," she greeted, poking through her bag. "Just the words I like to hear. Let's see...I've got that tobacco, and some of this here nice brandy I thought you might like. Oh, and some nice lady all the way over at Sutter's Fort traded me this beautiful cameo for some blankets, if you can believe it. I guess they were buckling down for the winter and a lot of them green settlers don't know what winter up here can be like. Matter of fact, I hear they got a party comin' through there just determined to make it over these damned mountains by the end of summer. Donner, I think it is. They wasted too much time in Utah and now they won't be ready to leave 'till late spring, if they're lucky." She shook her head, knowing it was foolish to leave later than March to cross such a treacherous pass with full wagons. "Don't imagine we'll be hearing from them again."

She realized she was prattling on and added, "Anyway, I thought Mrs. Slauson might like the cameo. Oh, and I've got a few books here that I got from a fella over in Cold Springs -- philosophy, mostly, by the looks of it. Back in the cabin I've got a lot of furs and blankets, some nice snowshoes and lantern oil. Your basic supplies. I'm happy to show them to you in the light of day, when it ain't so dark out." She passed him her bag and let him peruse through her items.

Seated once more by the flickering light of the fire, Lucy couldn't help asking, in a low voice, "So, uh, General...what d'ya think of this new doc?" She tossed a glance over her shoulder towards Hart's office, as if nervous that they might hear her. "He seems kinda odd to me. Then again, I don't know if I've exactly made the best first impression, either," she chuckled.

~~

As Martha cleaned up in the dining hall, her mind wandered back in time, to a few years back when she and George first came to Fort Spencer. They were both well-respected members of the tribe; their family had always been people known for their good sense. As a young woman, she recalled many of their tribesmen coming to her father for advice, first about how to avoid war with encroaching tribes who saw traders as a threat to hunting tribes, and later about how to keep the white men at bay. And up until his recent death, he always had given sage advice.

Martha longed for that advice now, though she was also glad that he did not live to see his oldest son die before him. George may have overindulged with Cleaves of late, but that was only when boredom and depression had finally begun to take its toll on a man who once had great dreams of restoring glory to their tribe. Once those dreams died, so did a part of him, though the wisdom and watchfulness of his father always remained a part of him.

She set out a plate of food for Major Lindus, accompanied by a hot cup of coffee that he surely would want when he came in from the cold. Martha peeked out the window towards the shack, and spotted Lindus, still standing guard. This was as it should be. The others were in the lodge, so she joined them. Barely making a sound, Martha settled in at the farthest corner while Lucy and General Slauson spoke. Yes, it was a poor substitute for previous nights. It was a harsh environment here, but she and George knew no other, and Hart had proven to be unlike many other of the military. He had even asked George to teach him their language.

Her thoughts turned to George once more. His intuition had always been as on target as the arrows he fired. What had gotten the better of him, out there by the caves? What did Hart know that he could not recall? These questions troubled her, though she said nothing. She stitched away at her quilt in silence.

~~

Ives smiled as Boyd took the bowl and tried to hide his bloody wrists. Ives knew that Boys would try and break free. Why does he think that he had him tied up? He still did not fully understand why Boyd was holding out like this. Especially now that he knew more about Boyd and his family and that he ultimately had nothing. He did not understand why he was holding on to his morality.

When Boyd asked him to be let loose of his chains, Ives considered it slightly. Perhaps it was his anticipation of what he wished Boyd was. But now was not the time, not yet. He had plans.

He watched as Boyd took a bite of the stew. Ives planned on staying here and making full sure that Boyd ate the whole bowl plus the half of bowl that Lindus had brought for Boyd in the first place. He needed Boyd to eat as much as possible, especially before what he wanted to do next. Ives knew that the stew made its strongest effect while you were tasting it, feeling it course through your veins. The effect right after was astonishing too. That is when Boyd would be the weakest, and most agreeable to wanting more, and taking it.

Ives gave Boyd a look that showed Boyd that he had not intention of letting Boyd out right now, not until he finished what he wanted done.

"I have plans for the horses Captain Boyd. But I appreciate your ideas." He said to him, sitting down again and continuing his cigar. "Do you have any more that may be of some use to us?" He gave a look intently watching as Boyd picked as his stew. He did not eat lavishly as he did before when he ate Knox for the first time. He had thought that Boyd had been conquered then, but obviously not. Considering the conversation that they had just had, he thought that Boyd would welcome the stew. He was becoming irritated again.

"Captain Boyd, if you don't eat that meat, I'm going to have to go over there and force you." Ives said in a joking tone but with enough force that Boyd got the point. "Please remember, I am trying to help you. I have not given up on you. Not like everyone else. Right now I am all you have. Why not accept that?" John’s eyes settled on Ives as he spoke. The man knew exactly the right things to say which was both wonderful and utterly alarming at the same time. Boyd had to question how much of this talk was an act and how much was real. There were hints. The way Ives’ eyes changed when he spoke of his upbringing made it clear that part was real. He had seen Ives lie and seen him tell truths and in his eyes when he spoke of his father, there was no lie. But Boyd had been looking down when Ives said he was doing this to help him. He could not see his gaze. So was he? Was he trying to help or was he just setting Boyd up to take another fall? The other man had forced him over a cliff more than once now. Both in reality and a metaphoric sense. Ives was pushing him right now and Boyd knew from experience it was easier to fall than face the consequences of saying no.

He also felt abandoned by Hart, which made Ives’ words about being all he had even more potent. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Hart, but he was mad that the man hadn’t just set him free. He could have killed Hart, Ives and himself in the process. All of this would be over. But no, the man had to escort the brutish woman out of the room and there was little mystery to that. Hart had confessed to being sent here because of trouble with a woman. Every man had a weakness. His was becoming clear to him by the second.

“I do not know,” he confessed bluntly. It wasn’t wise to show all of his cards at once, but what choice had he but to? Keeping it all to himself was easy. That was how he always handled things, but it hadn’t not taken him to any place but chained to a wall in a Fort designed for misfits and problem soldiers. It was just so temping to lay down his anger and resistance and lay his soul bare. It would be easy to beg for help. Just as easy as it was to take another bite. But he resisted the first temptation and kept some secrets to himself. The second temptation, however, he gave into and took in another spoonful of the stew, this one more hardy than the first. He kept telling himself it was only temporary, but in his mind he questioned his own motives now. “I can not tell you why because I do not know myself. It is wrong to kill and more wrong when the knife is plunged for selfish reasons. I know that and yet, sometimes I think about it, imagine it in my head. Is that not also wrong? I crave what you crave and that too, is wrong. When a soul has committed so many crimes, it is redeemable?”

He sounded like his mother and he knew that. He sounded like her when she mused aloud about the Bibles teachings as they sat by the fire, him with his schoolbooks and her with the only book she ever held dear. She would read her verses, even though she had them committed to memory and then muse aloud, waiting an answer from some higher being.

“And if it is not redeemable, what choice does it have but to go on in an earthly form once it is aware no heaven awaits it. We can continue to live as we are or die and face a worse fate. I am one of you, what you and Hart are, in my desires. I know that. Some part of me questions if I can yet be saved and another part, a more primal side, says no, just give in.”

Ives listened to all this all the while playing with his cigar in his hand. He hated that he was starting to become more irritated with Boyd but could not help it. Here Boyd was spouting all this good and righteousness shit again, when the answer was right in front of him. It was not complicated; it was in fact, very simple. Right or wrong did not matter; it was the choice to live or to die. Ives had not really ever lived until he tasted the scout. And he suspected Boyd had never either until he tasted Reich.

"Don't get all philosophical on me now Captain. It is really not that complicated. Who knows after the more you eat if we will ever really die? Will we get older? I don't know. I am not certain if there is a heaven or a hell but I feel like I have already went through hell and have just started to feel what heaven could be like." he stopped and began to feel his irritation. "You wonder if I am really trying to help you, or just toying with you. I would say both. Your morality." He shook his head. "Where has that gotten you? Where is your mother now? Could you ever face her? My mother is in the grave and I feel nothing about it." he felt his voice raise. "Have you never felt power Boyd? Are you afraid of it? Are you afraid of me?"

Ives stood up. He did enjoy the sensitive chats that they had shared but he still could not help but feel complete annoyance and frustration.

"Keep eating!" he barked when he noticed that Boyd had stopped. He leaned down toward Boyd, and stopped inches from his face and waited until he took another bite.

"You will become one of us Boyd,” he growled in a low voice that didn't even feel like his own. "Believe me." Heaving a frustrated sigh, Boyd knew he had no choice but to eat and so, he did. Quickly this time. The sooner the taste was down his throat and out of his mouth the better and throwing the bowl in Ives’ face would only earn him another punch. He had taken so many hits in the past few days that he wasn’t sure he could stand one more. He felt as if he might break.. in more sense then one. One more hit and he’d lash out at someone, which would only prove the general theory that he was insane right.

He wanted to snap at Ives right now though, scream at him and punch him for all the bruises, scraps, cuts and stab wounds he’d given Boyd, but that was just the stew talking. That is what it always did.. made him aggressive. He wanted to demand answers after tasting that stew and kill others. It made him like Ives and that made him so confused. The line between right and wrong was blurred but he knew the moment the stew’s affects dissipated, he’d regret all he had done. He was like some blood thirsty animal that could not help itself from biting it’s own hand off. But the stew… it gave him so much courage that he found his voice and began to speak.

“Why me?” He asked, taking another bite without hesitation. “Why not Reich or Toffler.. why did you choose me? Because I was one of you already? How did you know?”

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