Fight

Hearing the venomous, insulting curses echoing behind him, a furious flush crept up Flying Eagle's neck. He immediately wanted to wheel his horse around, to loose an arrow, to shoot, to silence those vile epithets with a bullet. But a calmer, older Indian next to him, his face a stoic mask, stopped him with a firm hand on his arm.

"No! Flying Eagle. Once we open fire, war will be unavoidable!" His voice was as calm as a still lake, his expression revealing a hint of the same profound, almost weary hopelessness that often shadowed Chief Rains Fall's eyes.

"Damn it!" Flying Eagle hissed, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists, veins bulging on his forearms, a testament to his suppressed fury. But he had no choice. With a trembling hand, he had to slide his rifle back into its holster.

There was nothing they could do. If these American soldiers shot and killed them, it would simply be dismissed as an "accidental injury," another casualty in the relentless march of "progress." But if they, the Indians, dared to shoot and kill American soldiers, it would be a declaration of war, an unforgivable act that would give the white man the bloody justification to resume their genocidal slaughter and forced expulsion.

Suppressing the burning frustration and the bitter grievances in their hearts, the seven men urged their horses into a hidden copse of trees, then slowly, reluctantly, came to a halt.

"How is it, Flying Eagle, did you find it?" The calm-faced Indian, his eyes heavy with anticipation, finally asked.

"I found it, Uncle. This whole stack of documents is it," Flying Eagle replied, pulling a thick bundle of papers from his saddlebag. The entire stack had become somewhat crumpled, stained with mud and sweat during their desperate flight, but he handled it with meticulous care, then handed it to a young man in their group who, miraculously, understood the white man's English.

The young man took the documents, his gaze sweeping over the pages, reading carefully. The more he read, the more his cheerful expression began to curdle, replaced by a profound gloom, and his face slowly, painfully, became etched with sorrow. After a long, agonizing silence, he finally spoke, his voice muffled, thick with despair:

"Yes, Flying Eagle, Uncle. These are the documents, but they are... useless now."

"How is that possible?!" Flying Eagle gasped, greatly startled, his voice a choked cry of disbelief. They had risked everything, stolen these documents at immense peril. But what they had stolen was not Mr. Cornwall's original, incriminating documents, but rather the military's geological exploration report from this very period.

Mr. Cornwall's power was simply too immense; even the military had specially dispatched troops to handle the "Indian issue" here, ostensibly to assist Mr. Cornwall in his geological explorations. Of course, it was more likely that some military bigwig wanted to get his own greedy slice of the pie.

"Yes, Flying Eagle. This document is already three months old. And it's just a backup copy. The original, first-hand data should have already been delivered to those people, to those who will surely exploit our lands."

The young man's words fell like stones into a still pond, silencing the entire team. The atmosphere became stifling, overwhelmingly oppressive. No one, not a single one of them, could have imagined that the documents they had so painstakingly stolen, risking life and limb using every cunning method at their disposal, turned out to be utterly worthless, three months out of date!

This meant that it was now impossible for those military personnel and Mr. Cornwall to overlook this sacred land. If they hadn't met Dutch during this agonizing period, they might have, in two or three months, met Arthur, and then embarked on this very same futile mission to steal Mr. Cornwall's utterly useless documents. Although they had stolen it early now, it was still of no damn use.

"Damn it all to hell!" Flying Eagle instantly felt all his strength drain from him, his shoulders slumping. He sat on his horse, his body almost completely devoid of any belief, any hope. Whether it was writing to the Mayor, pleading with the Senator, or stealing documents, they had exhausted every single means at their disposal. But there was no hope left; all their desperate actions had ultimately proven futile, a truth they simply could not, would not, accept.

The seven Indians were utterly despondent; they didn't even want to talk anymore, their voices choked with despair. Instead, one by one, they listlessly urged their horses to slowly, mournfully return to their tribe, their faces grim, their spirits broken.

The mournful sound of hooves echoed through the dense, unforgiving forest, a funeral dirge for their lost hope. Not long after they began their slow, silent journey, the older Indian, riding beside Flying Eagle, suddenly asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "Flying Eagle, can Mr. Van der Linde, whom you spoke of, truly be our last resort? Our final hope?"

Hearing the question, the surrounding young Indians, their spirits momentarily rekindled by a faint spark, all focused their attention, their eyes fixed on Flying Eagle. As early as a week ago, when Flying Eagle had returned with Chief Rains Fall, he had convened a solemn meeting within the tribe, seeking their opinions on Dutch's proposal.

It must be said that Mr. Van der Linde's conditions were incredibly tempting. However, the Indians and the Americans already had a deep, bitter blood feud, and they mutually despised each other with a visceral hatred.

Even though Chief Rains Fall, a few of the women, and Flying Eagle himself agreed to consider relocating to Dutch's territory, some still expressed strong, defiant disagreement and outright hostility. Therefore, this option had been reluctantly put on hold; otherwise, they might have already sought refuge with Dutch.

And now, hearing the desperate question, Flying Eagle was also slightly stunned, caught off guard. He hesitated slightly, his brow furrowing with renewed doubt, before finally speaking. "Mr. Van der Linde's proposal, perhaps, Uncle. You know, some in our tribe still don't agree, and we can't just abandon them and leave."

"But now we have no other way, do we?" the older Indian countered, his voice heavy with the crushing weight of reality. "The consequence of being driven out is that our women and elders cannot get enough food and clothing, and they cannot even endure this long-distance migration. It will make our already difficult lives even harder to sustain. Most importantly, we have fallen too far behind them, Flying Eagle. If we continue to lag, continue to resist progress, we will ultimately become mere collections in their museums, a fading memory!"

He was almost a mirror image of Chief Rains Fall; both were equally pessimistic, equally resigned to their fate, yet both had, finally, begun to desperately seek change, praying, begging for their people to survive.

And Mr. Dutch's words, his captivating vision, had undoubtedly struck deep into their troubled hearts. Ideas like learning from the barbarians to control them, learning their methods to deal with them, first letting their tribe survive, and then, perhaps, becoming capitalists themselves, buying back their ancestral lands indirectly.

Although these methods sounded fantastical, almost blasphemous, one point was paramount: they could continue to multiply, allowing future generations to survive, rather than being senselessly slaughtered, cruelly arrested, or summarily shot down.

Listening to his words, Flying Eagle remained silent for a long, agonizing moment, his head bowed in contemplation. Finally, he slowly straightened his back, a flicker of his warrior spirit returning to his eyes. "

Yes, Uncle. We have no other way. Mr. Van der Linde might indeed be our only opportunity; most importantly, he can allow our people to continue to survive!"

"Yes, child," the older Indian murmured, his voice laced with a profound, almost heartbreaking sadness. "Let's go back. Let's go back and persuade them; this is our only retreat now." He felt as if a sharp knife was twisting in his heart. How could he not know that this desperate path was, in fact, the insidious beginning of assimilation?

But if they didn't accept it, they would still be outcasts in America, still be driven out, still be hunted down, slaughtered, and ultimately, left behind, their spirit broken. Therefore, for the sacred sake of the entire surviving tribe, integrating with Dutch, accepting his offer, was the only true way out.