It was nearly noon the next day when the intrepid trio finally made it back to the dugout. The mornings hike had not been as quiet as the previous evenings trek. Black Elk had proven to be perfectly willing to converse although some of the answers he offered to Olivers questions were a bit vague. Questions like: “Where did you come from?” and “What are you?” were answered with thinks like: “West.” and “I am me.”

He wasn’t sure if it was because the elk-man didn’t know the appropriate English words or if he was purposefully leaving out details. It may have been a healthy mix of the two and he really couldn’t blame Black Elk either way. It wasn’t as though they had known each other long and he was sure that some level of suspicion existed on both sides. After all, he had been planning to shoot Black Elk before he'd know the elk-man was, well, an elk-man! Who had ever heard of a half elk-man creature anyway?!

Somewhere in the back of his mind he still wanted to believe that he was concussed. That it was his battered brain playing tricks on him that made him see Black Elk, who was really just some lone Cherokee scout who had avoided the round up of his people, as some weird half elk creature. Simply the delusions of an injured hunter who'd fallen twenty feet to the floor of a wash after being attacked by a cougar. That wouldn’t explain, however, that he had quite clearly seen Black Elk before his fall or the bruise that was forming above his right eye where he had run into one of Black Elk's tines earlier that morning as he helped the elk-man to his feet.

Despite his possibly fleeing sanity he had invited Black Elk to rest and let his broken leg mend at his dugout. The only problem was, they discovered once they arrived, that Black Elks antlers wouldn’t fit through the dugouts door-frame...

They decided, after several creative and painful attempts to get Black Elk through the door, that building an addition to the dugout would be a good idea. Then, when Black Elk took his leave, it could be used to house Mad Ann during bouts of the panhandles more inclement weather. The project would have to wait a few days though. Neither of them really had the energy or drive to build anything so substantial; what with their pair of banged up limps and assorted collection of scrapes and bruises.

Once Mad Ann was once again tacked down and happily munching in her paddock they set about gathering a bed of dried grass for Black Elk. They piled as much as they could in a space near the dugout that was as out of the wind as much as was possible. Oliver wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his bed but he needed to properly clean and stitch his lacerated leg and Black Elk needed to have his broken leg set and re-splinted. He drew some water from the barrel he kept full just outside the dugout and set it over a hastily made fire to boil. He then cut up one of his older shirts, worn thin at the elbows and in desperate need of replacement, to use as clean bandages.

It took the two of them the better part of an hour to get the leg set and properly splinted again with no shortage of grunts, groans and howls of pain through gritted teeth. Oliver had offered Black Elk a swig of whiskey to help dull the pain but he had been politely refused. Black Elk had insisted that he would need to be clear headed if he was to help tend Olivers wounds. The elk-man proved to have quite a steady stitching hand and Oliver was quite happy to let him use those skills while he drank both their shares of whiskey. His lower leg looked like a goodwifes quilting loop when it was all done.

Oliver managed to hobble back to the dugout and pull on a pair of pants that weren’t shredded from the knee down on one leg before he dosed off in his chair. He woke with a start a few hours later; noticing that the sky was turning a warm color he set about tending another need: hunger. He cut up a wrinkled potato and added it to what was left of the pot of boiling water. He also threw in a handful of salted deer shank and a few juniper berries. He offered some of the slapdash stew to Black Elk but the elk-man shook his head. He instead displayed a handful of dandelion greens that seemed to have materialized out of nowhere before popping at bright yellow flower into his mouth. He offered a few of the leaves to Oliver to add to his stew. He'd known they were edible, Mad Ann liked them quite a bit, but he'd never thought of adding them to a meal of his own. The dandelion leaves turned out to be a little bitter raw but in the stew they were quite good.

He limped out with one of his extra blankets just after the sun set. Handing the patch-worked throw to Black Elk he dropped gingerly down beside him.

“Thanks for stitching me up.' he said as he leaned back on the palms of his hands.

“I thank you that you did not run screaming to the a-ni-yastigi.' came the elk-mans reply

“To the what?”

“The many men...' Black Elk paused for a moment. '..with guns and horses.”

“Hunters?”

“No.”

“Cowboys?”

“No.”

“Hm...' It was Olivers turn to pause for thought. 'Soldiers then? Cavalry?”

“Yes, this is the word. Soldier.”

“I'd take me two days to ride all the way to Fort Elliott. Maybe 3 with the way m' leg is! Wouldn’t be worth the ride. Not to have a body who saved my life shot or sum such.”

Black Elk, who had thrown the blanket over his shoulders like a poncho, gave him a thoughtful look and then smiled. It took Oliver a moment to figure out that the deep, hiccuped, bugling sound that the elk-man was making was laughter.

“You are a good man, Oliver Brooks.”

They talked for a little longer although the conversation began to swiftly dwindle to long pauses punctuated by the occasional snort from Mad Ann. The mare would look over at them occasionally, twitching an ear this way or that, before she let her head drop lazily down again as she nodded off. After a particularly healthy yawn Oliver dismissed himself. He lurched painfully to his feet and wobbled there a few seconds before limping his way back to the doorway of his dugout; barely visible but for the soft glow of the dieing coals within. He thought he could hear a soft snoring behind him as he reached the door and turned to see Black Elk's head was already dipping as he, like Mad Ann, nodded off.

Oliver closed the wooden door, letting the wooden latch click down into the catch before stumbling past the now empty stew pot toward the bed. He didn’t remember reaching it.