On the prowl

The second general meeting of the Van der Linde Gang was, by all accounts, a roaring success. Dutch Van der Linde, probably polishing an invisible medal, was practically humming with self-satisfaction

. The whole gang was riding high; the clothing store was raking in coin, and the arms distribution? Progressing with the quiet menace of a well-oiled machine.

However, in stark, agonizing contrast, the Indian tribes were currently trapped in a suffocating embrace of utter despair. At this very moment, within the parched confines of their reservation, nestled awkwardly between New Hanover and West Elizabeth, two groups of people stood frozen, locked in a brutal, silent standoff. The air crackled with unspoken threats and centuries of grief.

"Chief," a muscular Indian man, 'Bear,' growled, his knuckles white as he gripped his bow, the arrow pointed (but not drawn) at Rain Falls.

His jaw was so tight, you could hear his teeth grind. "We will not trudge into that cursed American city! They've bled us dry, massacred us for centuries! That hatred? It's etched into our very bones, Chief! No one's letting go of that!"

His eyes, usually fierce, flickered with a raw, agonizing loyalty. He couldn't strike his Chief, but he sure could make him feel the weight of his words.

But then, from behind Bear, a man burst forward like a coiled spring, his face a contorted mask of pure, unadulterated fury. His name was 'Crow Feather,' and his arrow was already drawn, taut and quivering, aimed squarely at Rain Falls's chest.

"Damn it, Bear!" Crow Feather spat, spittle flying, his neck veins bulging like thick ropes under his skin. He gestured wildly with his free hand, nearly knocking Bear's bow. "Why are you still talking to him?! This... this hollow shell has long since forfeited the right to be our Chief! If it weren't for his pathetic, step-by-step groveling over the years, would our hunting grounds have shrunk to a muddy puddle?!

Decades of fighting have bled this old man's courage drier than a summer creek bed! He bows to the U.S. Army, he scrapes before the bounty hunters who track us like dogs, he smiles—or so it feels—at the American soldiers who humiliate our women!

And now?! NOW he's going to crawl to those damned Americans, Cornwall and that smooth-talking snake, Van der Linde?! You cowardly old man, you're not fit to herd goats, let alone lead a tribe!" He punctuated each insult with a furious jerk of his head, eyes blazing with a dangerous light.

Crow Feather's vitriol ignited the dozen or so men behind him like dry tinder. They surged forward, a chorus of guttural roars echoing his outrage, shaking their fists at Rain Falls.

"Not worthy! You are not worthy of being Chief!" they bellowed, their faces contorted in unified defiance.

"We'd rather die choking on dust, standing proud, than live another breath on our knees! Those American demons butchered our kin, and now you want us to integrate with them?! This isn't compromise, Chief, this is spitting on the graves of our ancestors!"

Another warrior, his face a mask of bitter resentment, stepped forward, his voice a low growl that rose to a furious shout. He slammed his fist into his open palm. "When they drove us from our homes, you just... fled! When they shoved papers in our faces, demanding signatures, you signed! And now, they want our very last patch of dirt, and you'll just nod?! You are a coward, Rain Falls! A craven dog!"

A younger, more fiery voice shrieked, "We'll fight! We'll make those Americans choke on our resistance! Let my blood paint our ancestral earth a righteous crimson, better than living a life of pathetic, starved surrender!" The sheer, unadulterated will to resist made Rain Falls's weary eyes sting with a faint, almost imperceptible redness.

Rain Falls stood unmoving, his face a stone mask, though a flicker of ancient pain shadowed his eyes. He remembered, all too keenly, a time when he had roared defiance just as fiercely as these young warriors. But what had come of it? The bitter taste of slaughter, the stinging wind of expulsion, the humiliating weight of a rifle barrel pressed against his skull, forcing him to his knees.

Resistance, he knew, didn't just claim the warrior; it devoured their entire family, leaving nothing but ashes and sorrow. This hatred wasn't something to be resolved; it was a poison to be swallowed, held down with gritted teeth.

He offered no retort to the cutting insults, merely a long, slow exhale. Beside him, Flying Eagle bristled, his eyes narrowing to angry slits, a growl rumbling in his chest. His hand instinctively went to the knife at his hip, about to lash out, but Rain Falls's gnarled hand clamped down on his shoulder with surprising strength, a silent, weary command to hold his tongue.

Stepping forward, his gaze sweeping over the defiant faces, Rain Falls spoke, his voice quiet at first, then gaining a desperate intensity. He gestured broadly, his hands carving the air as if shaping their desperate future.

"After all these years, all this bleeding, haven't you learned anything?!" he pleaded, a touch of exasperation in his tone, as if speaking to particularly dense children.

"We don't have the arrows, the horses, the bodies left to fight them head-on! They'll just peck us apart, feather by feather, until there's nothing left but dust where our tribe once stood! Oh, who doesn't dream of standing tall?" He scoffed, a bitter, humorless laugh that held no joy.

"Who among us fears death? We are born into its shadow, destined to dance on the knife's edge! Fear? Ha! That's a luxury for softer folk!" He took a step closer, his eyes boring into theirs, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

"But tell me, what glory is there in a 'sacrifice' that only serves to make those Americans waste a few more bullets? It changes nothing! It won't give us back one acre, one buffalo, one stolen breath! It will only grind us down, until our very name is wiped from the earth!"

His voice cracked with raw emotion. "Our sacred lands are becoming battlefields, our people… are being systematically erased! Is this the grand legacy you want? Of course, the hatred burns! It's a fire in my gut too! But if we all become ghosts, then that hatred… it dies with us! It's swallowed by history like a forgotten whisper!"

He turned, his arm sweeping to encompass the huddling women and children, his voice dropping to a choked whisper.

"Look at them! These women, these children! Half our lives have been spent running, half our lives in a waking nightmare of fear! I don't want their sleep haunted by the screams of headless corpses. I want them to live, truly live! To wake up and not wonder if this day is their last, if the next shadow hides a bullet or a noose!" His fists clenched, trembling slightly.

"Just a chance to live, damn it!"

Rain Falls' raw, desperate plea sliced through the hostile air, finding purchase in the weary hearts of those who, like him, clung to a fragile thread of hope for a future beyond endless war.

Behind Rain Falls, a silent sea of over two hundred women and children huddled closer, their faces etched with a bone-deep weariness, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a terrifying numbness.

They watched the furious debate, their small shoulders hunched, as if the very air pulsed with their impossible, agonizing fate. Children buried their faces into their mothers' skirts, tiny fists clutching fabric, their small bodies trembling not just from the shouted arguments, but from the chilling, ever-present fear of what tomorrow might bring. The air hung heavy, thick with unspoken anxieties, ever since the ill-fated document theft.

The tribal consensus had shattered into three distinct, snarling factions.

First, the 'Exhausted Realists' rallied around Rain Falls, their souls weary from generations of constant flight and bloodshed. All they craved was a quiet existence, a stable breath for their kin. This group, overwhelmingly women, held their children tighter, their greatest fear not death itself, but the thought of their little ones never seeing adulthood.

Then came 'The Cunning Hawks,' led by Flying Eagle. They'd been strangely captivated by Mr. Van der Linde's rather… unorthodox philosophy of 'cunning survival.' Why bash your head against a brick wall when you could simply tunnel under it? Direct confrontation was for fools. Their grand vision? Accumulate enough American coin to buy back their land, then, with a twinkle in their eye, hire the very Americans who'd stolen it, flipping the script and redefining power structures with a wink and a nod. The audacity of it was almost comedic, yet desperately hopeful.

And finally, 'The Fiery Furies' – these wild-eyed radicals, led by Crow Feather, who viewed the other two factions as nothing short of spineless sell-outs, spitting on their ancestors' graves with every whisper of 'peace' or 'money.' For them, there was only one path: glorious, defiant sacrifice on their ancestral soil. Dying with their boots on, their last breath a roar of defiance – that was their only 'compromise,' their only true honor. They scoffed, openly and loudly, at any notion of 'cunning survival' or 'stable lives.'

The present explosion of rage, this seismic clash of wills, erupted because Rain Falls had already begun issuing the grim, final orders: pack your meager belongings. They were preparing to uproot themselves again, to embark on a desperate trek to find this Mr. Van der Linde, and, with a bitter swallow, to formally surrender their last sliver of ancestral land to the avaricious grasp of Mr. Cornwall.

Normally, leaving this "reservation" – a glorified open-air prison – was an impossibility. The US Army and their professional trackers hovered like vultures, ensuring no Indian stepped foot outside their designated, diminishing cage. But now, ironically,

Cornwall's greedy eyes had fixed on this particular patch of earth. And the military? They were practically throwing a party at the thought of these troublesome natives voluntarily vanishing.

Their watchful eyes were, for once, conveniently blind. Anywhere, literally anywhere, was suddenly an option, as long as it wasn't here.

This was it. Their single, agonizing, last chance.