Night Watcher
Virtual Season 7
by Paola C.
ACT 3
Scene 12 - Day 4
They had managed to split the patients between Colorado Springs and the
Chateau, and the situation looked a little brighter. However, the
ambulatory was still full, and people kept crowding the porch. Michaela
came down, rubbing her hands into her apron. She yawned and stretched
with a distinctive crack in her joints. She hadn't even hardly had time
to see her children before she had to rush to tend to the many patients.
There was a knock at the door.
"Oh, Dorothy," she burst out, frustrated, when she saw her friend. "This
poisoning is spreading. I don't think it was Loren's canned meat. But
then, what is it? It must be something they are still using. I've asked
them, but I can't seem to discover what it is that everybody has used!"
Dorothy put her hands on her shoulders, supportively. "You'll make it,
Michaela."
"I only wish I wasn't so worried about what's happening at the
reservation."
Dorothy brightened. "Michaela, I brought somethin' to you." She whipped
out a newspaper from behind her back. "I thought about what you told
me... Forrester's name's not new to me, so I checked recent issues of the
Denver Post. He's quite well known in Denver. He is indeed looking
forward to a political career in the soon-to-be-formed State of Colorado,
and building his fame as the one who will solve the Indian question."
Michaela grabbed the newspaper, opening it feverishly to read the column
Dorothy was pointing out to her. "Dorothy - thank you. This could get
useful. We've got to help Sully in any way we can..."
Scene 13 - Day 4
A Cheyenne was sitting on the ground in front of his meager shack, making
a basket. Crouched in front of him, Sully was attempting to discuss with
him. But the man just kept weaving his basket, slipping the slender
pliant branches in and out, in and out, hypnotically, and giving Sully
brief answers which didn't seem to satisfy him. Sully was getting heated,
but his earnestness crashed against the man's indifference. McKay was
trying to follow the conversation, more and more impatient. From the
jail, Leaning Tree was watching too, hands clasping the bars, eyes
hooded.
Suddenly, Sully got up and broke the argument, upset. He turned to go.
"So?" McKay said.
"He says no," Sully replied curtly.
"That was no?! What's the matter, why don't he tell you?"
"He knows nothin'."
"Look, Sully," McKay said, patiently, "I know the word for 'death' in
more languages than I'd like to. This man here was repeatin' it over an'
over."
Sully was surprised, but still diffident. "He was tellin' me he knows
nothin' 'bout Greene's death."
"He told you that in a pretty wide variety of styles."
Sully's temper snapped. "Ya wanna hear what else he told me? He told me
Greene deserved to die. He told me you an' your whole garrison deserve to
die. He told me all Whites deserve to die - he's holdin' judgement on me,
but it don't look so promisin'. He was beginnin' to tell me exactly what
he an' his comrades are gonna do to ya an' all your men, not necessarily
after you're dead..."
"I know what," McKay said, very cold. "I've seen it."
They looked at the man. He was making the basket quietly, head down, but
they could feel the menace. Other Cheyenne were walking in the
background, looking at the soldiers with dark hateful stares. The
soldiers in turn were restless and afraid, looking ready to react any
moment.
McKay saw all of this, worried. And yet there was nothing he could do
about it. He started away, followed by Sully.
"Why didn't ya tell me at once, Sully?" the sergeant said crossly.
"Afraid to hurt my feelings?! Or you think I could retaliate against
'em?"
"No, I don't think you would." Sully shrugged. "I gotta get used to this.
To workin' with you, I mean. Knowin' you don't trust me either."
McKay couldn't deny it. "It's strange for me, too," he admitted,
ill-at-ease.
"Sergeant McKay."
McKay turned, and noticed Leaning Tree looking out from the barred
window.
"Yes?"
"Send that man to me."
"Why?" McKay asked, suspicious.
"I can ask him if he knows anything."
The sergeant was surprised. "Why would you do that?"
"Because he will not talk to you. To either of you. Yes, Agent Sully. My
people have no longer any trust in Whites."
Sully approached the jail. "Do *you* know somethin', Leaning Tree?"
"No. But I believe that Many Days and Private Greene did not kill each
other." He looked at McKay. "Your soldier was never disrespectful to us,
and I am as sorry for his death as you are. So I want to get to the truth
- otherwise there will be more bloodshed." He gestured to the braves who
were still exchanging baleful looks with the soldiers.
McKay was stunned by his words. He nodded, turned around and motioned for
the basket man to approach.
Before the diffident Cheyenne even got up, however, there was a sudden
commotion towards the gate of the reservation. Forrester was approaching,
escorted by the corporal, and with him was Superintendent Hazen.
The Indian Agent affected a calm look, but there were shouts of anger
against him and Hazen. An Arapaho man tried to get at the Superintendent,
and a soldier shoved him down. The other Indians were about to jump
forward. The corporal pushed back the soldier and menaced the Indians
with his gun. For a moment it seemed they were spoiling for a fight at
any cost, then they stepped back.
The crisis was avoided - for the moment.
Appalled, Hazen walked towards Sully and McKay, waving his hat for fresh
air. "Watcha doin' here?" burst out Sully and McKay, together.
"I could ask the same of one of you," Hazen said, looking pointedly at
Sully.
"Michaela was here to treat the wounded," explained Sully, trying to be
patient. "She went back to Colorado Springs on a medical emergency. I
stayed to help Sgt. McKay discover what started the revolt. Your turn,
sir."
Hazen was unfazed by Sully's tone. "Mr. Forrester wired me yesterday. He
wanted me to come and see the situation by myself. I guess I've seen it.
Mr. Forrester was suggesting that maybe we made a mistake sending this
garrison here."
"My garrison quelled the revolt with minimal loss of life, sir," McKay
said, anger barely concealed in the emphasis he gave his words.
"A pity that the previous garrison managed to *prevent* revolts for a
long time." Hazen made a contemptuous pause, then looked around. "This is
a bomb with a burning fuse, Sergeant. While I was coming here I gave some
thought to the matter. I think you have to show 'em some guts" -
smoldering, McKay managed to keep silent - "so I'm asking you to teach a
tough lesson to the whole reservation. Execute the revolt's leaders, and
the people will calm down."
Sully turned sharply towards him, shocked.
McKay stared at the Superintendent - that thought had never crossed his
mind. "Sir?!"
"Otherwise, Sergeant," Hazen said calmly, "you and your garrison are
history."
Behind him, Forrester nodded. Sully and McKay exchanged a dismayed look.
"I can't execute 'em," the sergeant insisted, looking from Hazen to
Forrester. "They are prisoners of war. They deserve a fair treatment."
Hazen nodded curtly. "Very well. Then, soldiers to soldiers, give them a
court martial for starting a revolt and continuously inciting the other
prisoners to rebellion. I want this matter settled by tomorrow morning.
Otherwise, you're out of here." He turned to Forrester. "Now where can I
have some fresh water and something to eat in this blasted place?"
As Forrester escorted Hazen away, McKay and Sully stared at each other.
Where to go from there?
Scene 14 - Day 4
Michaela peeked out of the clinic. The crowd on the porch didn't seem to
dwindle. She was about to pull back in, dismayed, then she saw Jake
making his way through the crowd.
"How's it goin', Dr. Mike?"
"People are improving, Jake," Michaela answered. "But patients keep
coming in."
"I'm beginnin' to doubt it's a simple food poisonin'." Jake looked stern.
"As Mayor, I've the duty to act. I wanna put the town in quarantine."
"Don't be so catastrophic, Jake!" she said sharply. "It *is* food
poisoning, and we'll have it soon under control..."
"Dr. Mike!"
It was Loren, calling at the top of his voice. Michaela turned and sped
up the stairs. She burst into the room, followed by Jake. "What is it,
Loren? Is it Preston?"
But Preston was on his bed with the pillow over his head, trying to
shield himself from Loren's yells.
"Loren, you should be in bed..." she began.
"Dr. Mike!" Loren came up to her, too excited to stand still. "It's the
lard!"
"Lard?"
"It came from that Denver supply too. I sold it to Grace and to Preston's
chef..."
Michaela's eyes widened. "And everybody used it for cooking!"
"I'm so sorry," said Loren contritely. "I won't have any more to do with
that man in Denver! One thing's makin' a li'l profit... puttin' a whole
town in danger's quite another!"
Michaela turned quickly. "Jake!" she called. "Go out, tell everybody to
stop using lard in the food... quick!"
Jake ran downstairs. Just for a moment, Michaela shared a triumphant
smile with Loren.
Scene 15 - Day 4
Cloud Dancing had followed the trader's traces until Manitou. Now he
stood on a hill, looking down at the city. He frowned, weighing his
options, but there wasn't much that he could do. The trader could be
there - was he supposed to go back and call for help, at the risk of
losing the trace? But if he went, he risked meeting some overzealous
soldier, or get into trouble and be recognized. What was the punishment
for straying from the territory assigned to him?
And yet, he didn't have a choice.
In a moment, he was walking quietly along the fairly crowded streets of
the frontier town. Some turned as he passed, but on the whole he went
unnoticed. The town was full of colorful, picturesque trappers and
hunters. He saw some Indians of uncertain origin and even tried to talk
to them, but they snubbed him. They wore clothes which bore no
resemblance to those of any actual tribe, and they laughed and played the
fools while some cowboys made mockery of them.
Deeply embittered, Cloud Dancing walked up the steps of the sheriff's
office. He examined carefully the "Wanted" posters hanging on the walls,
afraid of seeing his own face. He peeked in, but there was no trace of
the sheriff. He looked around, then started towards the saloon.
Silence fell as he entered. Unruffled, he reached the bar under the
stares.
"Excuse me," he said to the bartender.
The man was fat and shrewd-looking, apparently not disposed to lose a
customer just because he was an Indian. "Yeah?"
"I am looking for a trader, a Mr. Mason."
"If it's firewater ya want, I can sell it to ya. Watcha gotta offer?"
Cloud Dancing thought quickly. "Yes, I want firewater. But my people want
it too. I cannot bring it to them. We need the trader."
In the background there was some laughter, and the usual noise resumed.
They had classified Cloud Dancing as the usual Injun addicted to booze.
"No problem," the bartender said promptly. "I can come with my wagon to
the woods outside the reservation. Those Army blockheads won't never know
a thing."
Cloud Dancing's patience was strained hard. "My brothers do not know you.
My brothers know Mason. They will not trust you."
The bartender waved a bottle. "They will. Oh, they will."
Cloud Dancing was at a loss. "I have to explain to my brothers why Mason
will not come..."
A man leaning on the bar turned slowly towards him. Cloud Dancing saw the
glimmer of a metal badge. It seemed he had found the sheriff.
"Cut it, Injun," the man said. "Mason's dead."
Cloud Dancing was almost shocked. He tried to keep his cool. "Dead?"
"Yep, dead. Seems he got too demandin' with one of the girls here, an'
she shot him."
"When?"
"What's it matter to ya? Some four days ago, anyway."
Cloud Dancing nodded and turned to go. The bartender called after him.
"I'll come with the wagon!"
The Cheyenne threw a disgusted look at him.
As he was going out, he spotted a drunk in a table by the doors, talking
to himself. Cloud Dancing wouldn't have paid any attention to him, were
it not that among the meaningless gibberish he thought he heard the name
of the trader.
He bent down, hoping not to scare him, but the man was probably too far
gone to even recognize him as an Indian.
"What are you saying?" Cloud Dancing asked softly.
"Fella got shot, yessir. Girl musta been bad, yes, really really bad."
"Why?"
"Saw 'im brought out, yessir. Shot in the back, he was."
"In the back? Are you sure?"
The drunk started singing softly to himself.
A man was walking towards the exit. He ran straight into Cloud Dancing.
"Outta my way, Injun." He gave him a push and threw him out of the
saloon.
Cloud Dancing staggered on the porch and barely managed not to fall. He
was furious, and sickened by the show he'd been forced to put up; but he
was also elated. He looked around, spotted the Post Office sign. He
walked towards it, hoping not to attract undue attention just then. The
office was empty apart from the operator, a bored young man, barely out
of his teens.
"Excuse me," Cloud Dancing began.
The operator was almost struck dead with fright. He lifted his hands in
the air. "N-n-no, don't - you not kill me..." He started making
extravagant gestures, beating his hands on his chest. "Me friend...
friend of you... yes?"
Cloud Dancing sighed. "Yes. Listen, my friend, I have the most urgent
need to send a wire. Will you kindly help me?"
The operator was stunned. "You-you speak our language?"
"I do. And I really need to send a wire. I can pay with U.S. dollars.
Will you help me?"
"G-g-guess I can do that..." The young man took out pen and paper.
Cloud Dancing was immensely relieved. "The spirits be thanked."
The operator wrote it down faithfully.
"No," Cloud Dancing said, at the end of his patience, "that was not the
message. The message is this: To Dr. Quinn, Colorado Springs..."
Scene 15 - Day 4
After putting yet another patient to bed, Michaela looked like she was at
the end of her wits. But when she and Dorothy looked timidly out of the
clinic room, they saw no one on the porch.
"We made it, Michaela!" Dorothy exclaimed, and embraced her.
Michaela closed her eyes in blessed relief. When she opened them once
again, Hank was approaching from the Post Office.
"This just arrived for you," he grumbled, handing her diffidently a strip
of paper.
Michaela glanced at the sender and understood at once why Hank was so
grumpy. "It's from Cloud Dancing," she said in a low voice, shocked by
the news. She handed it to Dorothy.
"Vulture killed 4 days ago in Manitou - shot in back - he can't talk
anymore," Dorothy read with a shaky voice.
Hank looked at them, perplexed.
Michaela clutched Cloud Dancing's wire in her hand. "I can bring this
news to Sully!" she whispered to Dorothy. "With the information you
gathered, now we can really help him. Keep an eye on things, Dorothy -
I'll be back soon."
She turned and ran to the livery. In a few minutes she was racing towards
East Fork, all fatigue forgotten. She rode at breakneck speed through the
woods, though knowing she wouldn't arrive there before dark...
Scene 16 - Day 4
Torches were being lit at East Fork. McKay had indeed put up a court
martial, with himself as judge and two NCOs as prosecutor and defense,
and a jury of five soldiers. They were sitting behind a long table, ready
to judge Leaning Tree and four other Cheyenne, one of whom was the
wounded brave treated by Michaela - the others were standing, but he was
forced to sit on a chair. Sully, Hazen and Forrester were watching.
The Superintendent and the Agent were smiling smugly. Not so Sully - and
neither McKay, who was clearly in the minority against the two
bureaucrats and most of the troopers.
A soldier walked up to the table. "The jury has reached a verdict,
Sergeant."
McKay just nodded.
"Guilty as charged."
McKay drew a deep breath and turned to the braves. "I hereby condemn you
to be shot by firing squad, tomorrow at dawn. Dismissed."
The guards began bringing back the Cheyenne towards the jail.
Sully jumped forward. "You can't do that, McKay!"
Forrester rubbed his hands. "Very good, sergeant. Why tomorrow and not
now?"
"Too dark," McKay said. "Men can't aim properly. I want those people to
die clean."
"McKay!" Sully cried. "The Cheyenne's self-defense has been practically
ignored. This ain't fair!"
"This court has ruled its judgement, Sully," McKay replied coldly. "You
better leave."
"McKay, I won't let you do this. I..."
"Very well." The sergeant snapped his fingers at two soldiers. "Escort
Mr. Sully out of the reservation, put him on his way towards Colorado
Springs."
"You can't do that!" Sully looked like he was intentioned to resist.
"McKay, think about it. You said..."
McKay was stern. "I promised your wife I'd watch over you, Sully. An' now
this is the best I can do for you. Go."
"You're making a mistake, McKay!" The soldiers pushed him away.
McKay turned his back on him. As he walked away, with a stony face, he
dropped an order to the corporal. "Double the surveillance tonight."
Just as Michaela was galloping desperately, still dismally far from the
reservation, the two soldiers accompanied Sully till they were one hour
away from East Fork. By then, the night was deep. They couldn't see the
trail anymore, and they wanted to get back as soon as possible.
Sully remained alone on his horse in a small glade, under the moonlight.
In front of him lay the road to Colorado Springs. But his spirit was
bursting with outrage and painful disappointment. He hesitated. Was his
duty as protector of the Cheyenne stronger than his promise to Michaela?
He tightened his jaws, the moon glinting in his haunted eyes. He waited
until he was sure the soldiers were well ahead. Then he turned his horse
and urged it along.
Towards East Fork.
END OF ACT 3
