Disclaimer: The characters of Connor MacLeod et al and the Highlander premise belong to Davis/Panzer Productions. I have only borrowed them for a time, and hopefully return them none the worse for wear.

1878

Connor woke up, instantly alert -- the result of too many recent days spent escorting supplies and wagons across the hostile desert. He had kicked off all the bedsheets in his sleep, but his underthings were damp, and he wiped a wet sheen of sweat from his face as he sat up on the edge of the stiff, thin mattress. The sun was just about to creep over the horizon this August morning, and he knew any minute now the reveille would sound, calling the officers and enlisted men out for inspection.

What had drawn Connor back to the army and in particular to Fort Lowell in the fairly new Arizona Territory -- what had recently been Spanish, then Mexican, lands -- was beyond even his own imagination. Perhaps it had been Duncan's withdrawal from The Game that had egged Connor into deciding he needed to pursue something outside the life and death of The Game himself. Instead, he mused, he was sunk into the life and death game of mortals -- in addition to the rough-and-tumble of frontier town life, the local Apaches were known to be brutal toward the settlers in this area, sometimes killing with gruesome abandon. There was certainly something about that which Connor couldn't abide, so he had come out here, to be stationed in one of the better-known -- and, in relative terms, more upscale -- forts in the West.

Connor glanced out the window at the red tip of the glowing orb hovering behind the Rincon Mountains, promising the soldiers hell to pay later in the day under that same sun in their dark wool uniforms. Perhaps the army had known what they were doing in issuing them, Connor thought as he moved quickly through his morning preparations. Wool "breathed" well, and whenever the wind kicked up, the men's own sweat provided a cooling factor -- important on the long rides they sometimes faced. Connor stood in front of his full-length mirror, using a brush to dust off the dark blue of his cavalry uniform. He had to admit, he was proud of his lieutenant ranking, as well as his work. His katana Connor left safely tucked under the bed in storage, instead buckling on his belt and attaching the hook for the cavalry saber. He would have to fear no other Immortal as long as he had a blade of some sort. Connor smirked. In addition to his skills with other weapons, the army had been impressed with his capabilities with a sword. If they only knew...

There it was -- reveille, and the cannon blasts that accompanied it. The sun rose slowly and triumphantly, stretching out its multicolored sleeves to push back the curtain of night as the soldiers lined up for inspection on the parade grounds. For some possibly demented reason, Connor liked inspection. He was proud of his uniform, and of what it stood for, in spite of the occasional hypocrisy of the job.

Connor had fought -- and "died" -- in the recent U.S. Civil War, and had been disappointed and a bit disillusioned by the pretense of virtue in the Northern army. So instead of re-involving himself in the war, Connor had turned to trapping in the new West, spending time with his kinsman Duncan -- who had joined up with a Lakota tribe and fallen in love with one of the women. Connor sighed inwardly even as he stood at attention. When the tribe had been brutally murdered, Duncan had retreated to Holy Ground. Connor himself had wandered for a while after that, searching his own conscience. Eventually he came to realize that he still believed in the integrity of the idea of military defense, even if the reality didn't quite live up to it, and he re-enlisted under a new name: John Duncan. Connor had hoped another "good guy" in an army that Duncan now viewed as evil would help "balance" things, and so the name had seemed an appropriate way to honor his grieving clansman.

Except for the fact that now, stationed at Fort Lowell, part of Connor's assignment was to stave off the Indians -- in particular, the Apaches who were intent on attacking travelers and the residents of nearby Tucson alike. The Apaches' activity had slowed somewhat prior to the War Between the States, but when the army called its men back to the East to fight the Confederates, several of the Apache tribes took it to mean they had been successful in driving off the White Man and had renewed their slaughterous ways.

Not all Indians -- not even all factions of the Apaches -- were enemies of the soldiers, however. In fact, some Apaches had chosen to be trackers to help the soldiers ferret out the attackers, and the Papago -- native to the Tucson valley -- generally kept peace with the new American settlers. They had had enough experience in getting along with the Spaniards, who had been in the region for a couple hundred years. Connor himself knew that Indians could be gentle, loving people -- he had been around Duncan and the Lakota Sioux too long not to know that. And he also knew that the Apache were only protecting territory that they considered to be their own, as well as their own peoples. The tales were still running wild about the massacre at Camp Grant just north of the Santa Catalina mountains, where back in '71 a group of Tucsonans had perpetrated an early-morning sneak-attack on the then-peaceful Apaches there, slaying over a hundred Indians -- all but a handful of whom were women and children. Connor understood that what the Apaches were doing now was no more inhuman than Camp Grant or the horrific massacre of Little Deer's tribe. But none of the killing was right or justifiable in his mind. Slaughter was slaughter -- be it Indians, White men, or even the "Scottish heathen" that "could not be allowed to breed" after the battle of Culloden. Connor suppressed a shudder, only letting it go when inspection had ended and he could head for the privacy of his kitchen.

Much to Connor's chagrin, meal time was generally social, even among the officers who each had a private kitchen behind his lodgings. By now the other officers had learned that "Lt. Duncan" wasn't much of the talkative type, however, and they left him to himself. Connor was thankful for the peace. His quiet time this morning left him for further reflections on the Indians, and on himself.

Connor was born and bred a warrior, so a militant attitude was nothing new to him, not by far. So why was he so concerned over a few deaths? That was normal in battle, right? It was expected when you were fighting for a cause. Connor sighed in the back of his throat. Yes, he decided, it was normal. In battle. On a battlefield, or in the guerrilla warfare commonly practiced by the likes of the American revolutionaries, armies of both sides in the Civil War, and most of the Indian tribes. But this was different, so very different. And it was this difference that had brought the aftermath of Culloden to mind. At that point, the war had already been declared over, with Prince Charlie fled, but the English kept killing -- and not soldiers or men with weapons, but women and children and old people, people with no desire to fight, just a desire to survive peacefully. Just as Little Deer's people hadn't been an immediate threat to anyone. And just as, according to several accounts -- including that of the commander of Camp Grant at the time -- the Apaches there had not been a threat either. Just scapegoats for some recent thefts and murders. And the bastards that had killed the Apaches in their sleep were all acquitted. That all happened before Fort Lowell had grown into what it was now, before anyone had even started mixing the dirt and water for the adobe bricks that made up the walls of Connor's quarters and the other buildings here. The effects of that slaughter still reverberated across the territory, and it had left a sizeable rift in the relations with many of the Apaches, who wanted nothing to do with the White intruders. And, in all honesty, Connor couldn't blame them. So often he could see both sides of the problem, and he wasn't always so sure who he was more in agreement with. But the new attacks -- although not frequent and small in magnitude -- were still a threat, and still carried out against civilians, women and children among them.

Connor could have stayed a trapper and avoided this kind of moral dilemma. So why was he a soldier now, and here? Connor frowned as he took another sip of the strong, bitter coffee in his cup. He despised the stuff, but the taste certainly woke him up and kept him awake -- he could taste it half the day after drinking it. So it certainly wasn't for the food or coffee that he'd become a soldier. And compared to the danger, the pay wasn't that great either. Not that he needed the money, anyway. So why exactly was it that he was here? Connor gazed into his cup as the first answers sprung to mind. The recruiters didn't ask a whole lot of questions about your past, out in the West. He could be whoever he wanted to be. And despite the occasional problems with the Apaches, fort life was fairly mundane and boring, and allowed him to lose himself in thought a lot of the time. It was an easy way to make a new life. A smirk played at the corners of Connor's mouth. You got to carry a sword in public. And then there were the women -- the gentle easterner ladies pursuing you in their socialite ways, and the señoritas either playing shy or blatantly making plays for you.

Connor's smirk grew into another frown. The easterners played for keeps -- a cavalry officer made a good husband, especially one stationed here at the fort. This little piece of land where Fort Lowell had been located was one of the best habitats in the West, particularly considering it was in the middle of the desert. There was readily available water from the river -- what they called the Rillito -- and there were grasses and plants to let the horses and other animals graze. The army had planted several rows of trees, including the two lines of cottonwoods between the seven officers' quarters and the parade grounds that marked out "Cottonwood Lane," or Officers Row. In addition to the landscape, the cavalry here had one of the best bands, and there were dances nearly every week with the upper-class of Tucson, what there was of it. And Tucson itself was close by to provide shopping, household goods and a link to society. It all made for a very nice setting, one that any good, upright woman would admire, and would like to claim as her own.

Several of these socialite women had been after him lately, and Connor didn't really appreciate it. Not that they weren't very nice...some of them were quite attractive and intelligent. So were some of the señoritas who had made eyes at him. But he couldn't get involved again. That had been Connor's mode for most of his three and a half centuries, and he was sticking to it for now -- particularly after seeing the way Little Deer's death had torn Duncan apart. Connor had been the same way after Heather's death. He wasn't going to take the chance of getting attached again, not in this savage land where anything could -- and did -- happen. As much as he liked the ladies -- and as much as they liked him -- it was better for them both if he stayed very, very unattached.

Stable Call interrupted Connor's thoughts, and he quickly rose from his chair and headed toward the corral. Where his thoughts had trailed off, his memories took over.

Connor had started out in the cavalry by enlisting at a fort further North and West, near San Francisco. It hadn't been the most exciting post, but it had allowed him to show off his talents and move up the ranks fairly quickly. It had not quite been a year since he had been transferred out here to Fort Lowell. Connor clearly remembered his arrival in the valley: it had been nearly dusk when the soldiers had ridden into the Fort that September evening, and Connor had dismounted and turned around only to be greeted by a most spectacular sight: a sliver of yellow sun resting on the rim of the Tucson mountains, haloed by oranges, pinks and purples streaked along the bottom of the tall blue-black thunderheads crowding the Western sky. Connor smiled slightly at the remembrance. It was the little things like that which kept him here. Connor enjoyed watching the sun rise and fall over this valley, and he liked being under both sun and stars in the midst of the desert wilderness.

And being in the midst of it was why Connor often volunteered for patrolling and escorting duties. The other officers were convinced the heat had driven him mad, but they weren't about to argue -- with as many ruffians and law-evaders as they had among their enlisted, having an officer to tone down the antics was not a bad idea. Connor, on the other hand, just enjoyed the opportunity to ride -- albeit on full alert for attack. Not much different, he surmised, than when he was a boy -- enjoying the time away from home, but always wary of hostile clans.

Connor liked being away from the fort more often than he liked being in it, these days. The daily routine was getting too dull -- not much outside of eating, caring for the horses and doing the drills. And drinking -- the prized vocation of many of the enlisted men when their working day ended at supper. This was the case so frequently that they often had to be rounded up from the Post Trader's Store -- where the closest tavern was -- before Taps was sounded. Connor did not join the enlisted or the officers in their frivolity. When he chose to drink these days, he drank alone, with only his memories to keep him company. He preferred it that way.

Connor took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh through his nose as he neared the corral. He was looking forward to losing himself in the rhythmic brushing of his mount, hoping to let go of some of the thoughts and memories that had already run amuck in his mind this morning. Sometimes the boredom and introspection of daily life here was too much.

The corral was large, capable of holding a hundred horses, with actual stable stalls on the south side and storage to the west. The walls were built of the same adobe mud bricks as the buildings were. Connor glanced at the wear and tear -- caused by alternating seasons of strong wind, pelting rain and drying sun -- that was already visible after only a half-dozen years of existence. The desert reclaims its own, he thought. In a hundred years, there may be nothing left of this fort. Connor knew well enough that this fort would not be necessary forever, and he briefly wondered what would become of it when it was no longer used. Finally pushing all extraneous thoughts aside, he settled into his routine.

Morning Stable Call was followed by cavalry drills -- an activity that kept Connor in the here and now and away from the nagging corners of his mind. Early afternoon provided another meal, and all the men were grateful to be getting shelter from the burning sun inside the mess halls. The oppressive heat, mixed with the wetness that was characteristic of the monsoon season of July, August and September, was enough to make even the heartiest men wither. Silence prevailed during these few moments of rest, the only sound that of the breeze blowing through open doors and windows -- not a cool breeze, but at least it was moving air.

The wind was growing stronger, Connor noted as he ate in solitude in his kitchen. And it vaguely smelled of rain. He'd noted the thunderheads beginning to build around the Santa Rita Mountains to the south, and that was the direction the wind was blowing from. Connor hoped fervently for rain, as did most of the men, he was sure. There hadn't been enough rain this season, a situation which might lead to drought -- and drought meant frustrated homesteaders as well as more raids from the Apaches, neither of which the soldiers liked to deal with.

Afternoon Stable Call came too soon, and as the men returned to the corral the heat was rising and shimmering off of the hard desert floor. Connor gazed toward Tucson, seven miles of flat desert to the west. It was a quieter town than, say, Tombstone, which was known for its gunbattles and bouts of lawlessness. But Tucson had its own troubles too, with both Apaches and shifting politics. It was officially a city now, and had been the grand capitol of the territory when he'd passed through on his route to San Francisco. Now, however, the lawmakers had shifted the capitol back to the northern city of Prescott. Even with the absence of the lawmakers, Tucson was still booming, and there was talk of building not only the railroad through here, but of starting a teaching school. Connor tried to imagine Tucson as a big city, like those back east, but found the image difficult to conjure.

Connor had only started to brush down his horse when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. There, at the doorway. Connor kept his eyes turned sideways, focused on the entrance. A small head poked around the side of the doorway, the chin ducked shyly. Connor smiled, waving the small Mexican lass inside.

Connor had frequently caught Simona nosing around, particularly around the horses, when she followed her sister Maria -- who was being courted by one of the soldiers -- to the fort. Simona and Maria were the daughters of the owner of a nearby ranch, a locale their family had inhabited for five generations now. Both girls spoke more English than their father, but were still limited in their speech, particularly the younger Simona. She had recently taken to seeking out Connor when she visited because he spoke more fluent Spanish. Connor thought that it was also perhaps due to the fact that he was friendlier toward her than most of the men here.

Both girls were still young. Maria had just had her quinciñera, and Simona wasn't due for hers for another year. Simona was too young and innocent for Connor's tastes, and deserved someone more serious about a relationship than he -- something that also excluded at least 95% of the men at Fort Lowell, Connor realized. Maria was being courted by one of the enlisted, a Private Marks, but Connor had heard this man talk and felt he would never take the girl's hand in marriage -- he just wanted to find out how far he could get with a Mexican girl. Connor feared the answer was "too far." And he hoped this younger girl would find someone more suitable, but because of her sister she was spending too much time at the fort. Some of the men were already leering at her, though she still seemed oblivious. Perhaps if Connor stuck by her -- just in friendly terms -- the men would leave her alone...

"Lieutenant Duncan." The voice of the commanding officer shook Connor from his thoughts. "The new enlisted have arrived. Your presence is requested for inspection." The Colonel cast a glance at the girl, then looked at Connor expectantly.

"Yes sir." Connor saluted, cursing himself for forgetting about the newcomers' pending -- and now confirmed -- arrival. There would only be a few of them, and inspection and all that went with it wouldn't take long. Connor quickly finished up what he was doing, giving Simona a wink before heading to the parade grounds where the new arrivals were waiting.

He was only a few steps outside the corral when the sensation overcame him, and Connor stumbled a step before recovering. He hadn't sensed another Immortal since he'd last seen Duncan, but the familiar headache was proof that one of these new enlisted was one of them.

Connor took his place among the inspecting officers on the parade grounds, looking down the line into each enlisted man's face, searching for the responsive gaze that would tell him who the other Immortal was. The last man in the lineup of six -- a few inches taller than Connor, broad-shouldered, with deep-set green eyes and short wavy brown hair -- gave an almost imperceptible nod as Connor's gaze wandered over him. Connor gave a similar nod in return. Tonight, when duties were over, they would talk. And Connor would ascertain whether Private Benjamin Sanders would be friend or foe. Connor surveyed the man's face a moment, then turned his eyes away. He'd hate to see the cavalry lose a decent enlisted over The Game.

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