“Protest is when we tell you, ‘Don’t fuck with us.’ Revolt is when we make sure you’ll never fuck with us again.”

  Erika Mittenwalde, 1913.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  Montana Territory, 1867

  Summer

  “Governor Thompson is our enemy. Governor Thompson is our monster.”

  Roaring waters. Stomping hooves. Fields of wheat and cragged cliffs and pines that reach to the sky.

  “His is the first of a government initiative to tame the West. Hand-picked by President Johnson to make our freedom unfree.”

  They ride along steel tracks. Ruined carts. Lines of wire.

  “His objectives are clear. Remove the natives…”

  To her left, fields of smoke.

  “...encourage trade…”

  To her right, piles of skulls.

  “... and prepare the land for formal annexation.”

  She ducks beneath a tree branch. On it, hooded corpses. Swaying from ropes in the breeze.

  “In short, he means to end us." Gawen Rowe looks up from the fire, studying the faces of his comrades. "If Thompson succeeds, every territory will follow, and the men robbing us of our wealth and our lands will breathe free. But if he fails, Montana will be free. Free under God. Free as your forebears intended. Any questions?”

  “Jes’ one.”

  Her face glows in the moonlight. Hands tight on the reins. If someone saw her racing past, they’d first notice her hair. Bright and flame-like in the night.

  Then they’d see the gun, almost as large as her.

  She uses Pa’s Springfield to pull herself forward. Looking her saviour, her Black Prince, in the eyes.

  “When do I pull the trigger?”

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  The world was darker, then. Without cars and jets and satellites, a frontiersman could walk into a field at night and not see the hand they wave over their face. They could stand in the desert, devoid of bees and wolves and birds, and when the wind dies down, hear nothing. For millennia, the West was silent. Perhaps, millennia in the future, it will fall silent again. But for now, that eternal peace has been shattered beneath the dying bleats of bison, beneath the screeching whistles of trains. Miners’ picks and farmers’ ploughs. Preachers. Whores. And so many guns.

  Tonight, the peace is broken with an explosion. A thunderous roar and a burst of red flames. It’s large enough to be seen from town. Large enough to collapse the Black Hills Company storehouses’ left wall. Large enough to be the loudest sound that ever came to this shred of the world.

  It’s followed by gunfire, and men shouting.

  “BLACK BANNERS!”

  “Rakli!” Menowin fires into the distant torchlights. His clothes are in tatters, his face covered in soot, and when bullets approach, he crouches for cover in the rubble he’s created. “MOVE FASTER!”

  “I’m tryin'!"

  More bullets, whizzing past like dragonflies. Menowin springs out, shoots, ducks. Springs out, shoots, ducks. He pales the moment he hears hooves. Charging riders, trying to outflank him. Fuck fuck fuck!

  Aether surges through his body as he stands. Revolver lifted, eyes ablaze. He lets his blood. Seven o' clock, shot. Nine o' clock, shot. A man yelps as his horse's neck explodes, clattering to the earth without bucking him from the saddle. Menowin races forward the moment he hears crunched bone. The man screams, crawling back, a white stick bursting from his knee. "NO NO N-"

  A step, and a shift in weight. All Menowin needs to end the boy's life with another crack. But his ears are pricked. Another target. Ten o' clock. No, six o' clock. No, WAIT WAIT!

  He smells the smoke, hears the powder, lifts his hand.

  And suddenly, stiffness.

  The world is frozen.

  He takes a breath. The aether burning through him is immense, immense enough to feel like he's boiling on the stove. Around him, Earth's performance continues, but in a swirling, slow-motion mess. He turns around and stares at the black warhorse charging for him, the boy of a rider, the bullet spinning towards his skull at the rate of an inch a blink. The word 'Savage' has been etched into it.

  He plucks it without effort when it nears his eye. Spins it around, gives it a push. Then he blinks. A surge of light. The horse gallops on, but its rider falls.

  “Got it!”

  With the voice, two more horses, charging from behind. One, large and black. The other, small and brown. Fireside tosses one of the reins, and Menowin leaps. The pepper of gunfire is broken by bursts of her rifle. They lock eyes, and he shows her the lighter. She nods. He throws.

  Aether's an impressive substance. Highly reactive to many things. But with Menowin's blood, that reaction tends to end only one way. As they ride, a surge of bright blue light illuminates the path ahead of them. Loud enough to submerge all other noise. Including the human screams.

  He scowls, spurring his horse. "We should've robbed them. See all the pelts in there? We'd live like kings!"

  "But Rowe ordered us ta-"

  "To Hell with Rowe's orders-"

  Force. It’s quick, and it’s solid, and it thrusts Menowin straight to the dirt. The horses continue to run, causing Fireside to shout. "Maripen!"

  He looks down, twisting. Rope, maybe hemp, looped around his torso. He reaches for a knife he can't find, pulls at ropes that prove too strong. It sears his skin, the more he writhes.

  Until the footsteps of a giant stop him.

  “Dett var litt av jakten.” Cold metal on his throat. Menowin's cold metal. He stares up and finds two faces. One, a hollowed-out dead wolf. The other, the scarred man wearing it. “Sig?yner.”

  "Nels. Nels.” Menowin chuckles, flashing a smile? “Too late to talk this through?”

  A boot in his face. Menowin squirms in the mud, sputtering.

  “All winter, I chase you.” Nels is littered in pelts. Whips and harpoons. “All winter, I breathe in the ashes of the towns you have burned.”

  “Not towns.” Menowin spits out a chunk of steaming blood. “Just the homes of men you whore to."

  The knife digs deeper. Menowin bares his fangs.

  "These men are scared. Why else hire me?” Nels leans in. Digging the blade closer. “But there is good money in protecting them, vandrer. Money for men like you."

  He smirks. "And what kind of man is that?"

  "I'm told the gypsies know no honour. Keep no gods."

  “We don’t fucking need them.”

  “All the same.” Nels tilts his head. “There's use in a man with no care towards his soul. Share, and I won’t kill you. Speak, I won’t cut out your tongue. Thompson doesn’t care about vagabonds. He wants the English. The Ranger. The girl."

  “The girl?” Menowin’s eyes flash. “She’s got bounty too?”

  Nels doesn’t reply. It makes Menowin laugh, a high, shrill sound like a hyena's. “You hear that, rakli!? Sounds like SOMEONE got promoted from shoe-shiner!”

  Nels face collapses, but it's already too late. She accounts for him standing up, and the musket ball shreds through his eye.

  She trods into the clearing on her little horse, Ginger Root. Dismounting, she walks right past Menowin, tapping with her rifle the corpse she just made. "I don't shine yer fuckin' shoes."

  "He didn't need to know."

  Fireside turns. Harriet scoffs. She looks older now. Sixteen. Food and age have made her body straighter, stronger. Her hair goes down to her neck. As Menowin approaches the horse, she lifts her hand. "Wait. Were ya gonna tell him. 'Bout Rowe?"

  He gives her an unamused look. "What do you think?"

  Poor choice. She aims her rifle right at him.

  "Rakli, please."

  "Ya were bitin' at his orders jes' now, yeah?" She pulls the hammer back. "Doubtin' him?"

  Menowin sighs. "Like always."

  "Yeah, well jes' 'cause he tolerates it don't mean I do." Her lip quivers. "He saved us. Wants ta save everyone, an' while there's people out there stoppin' him an' not understandin' him, yer jes' here stirrin' the fuckin' pot!"

  "And what? He needs your protection, now? Are you guard dog?"

  She twitches at that. "He deserves men who believe in him."

  "Believe what you want." Menowin disregards the gun, climbing onto the saddle. "He still won't Light you."

  A few seconds pass. Then the gun lowers. Fireside climbs on, muttering to herself with swear-laden whispers.

  “We best get my horse,” Menowin hisses.

  “They'll need support in town.” She turns to meet the scowl she's expecting. "Guard dog, remember?" With a spurt, Ginger Root surges into the night. “HI-YA!”

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  A bang, and a body, sinking into the grass.

  Red Eddards blows the smoke off his gun, unholsters another, fires. A dozen men converge on the bank now, some sheriffs, most not. The second word gets out that the Black Banners are marching, their enemies scramble to recruit fur trappers, highwaymen, anyone with a gun and enough greed.

  Shot. Shot. Shot.

  “Rowe.” Red doesn’t look back, but he can hear the man and the banker wrestling. “Jes’ shoot the fucker!”

  "FUCK OFF!" The banker slams his fist into Rowe's throat. "I worked for this money! I BUILT this town!"

  Suddenly, glass shatters. Red's forced to duck. Multiple bullets streaming through the windows over him. More men fall. The banker coughs. The Wilds inside Red immediately smell the blood.

  He turns to see Menowin and Harriet storm in. The banker is kneeling up, clutching a white shirt that's increasingly turning red. He looks back just as Menowin clutches his shoulder. “Ya… ya shot me.”

  Menowin sneers, and slams the man's cheek with his revolver. "You'll live."

  Harriet lifts her rifle. "RED GET-"

  Red barely has time to duck before her rifle rattles his eardrums, and a wave of blood washes over his hair. The man in fur pelts behind him gurgles, gripping his throat, the knife slipping from his hand and into the dirt. Eventually, his eyes dim, and he crunches into the glass as he falls.

  Red sighs, finds the rawhide that fell off his head, and places back where it belongs, blood and all. "Thanks."

  She's already rushing to Rowe, helping him to his feet. "Are ya hurt? Are ya okay? I'll kill the fucker who-"

  "I'm fine." He lifts a hand, and she steps back. “I’m more concerned about you.”

  “We were ambushed. Again.” Menowin tells him. Seeing the worry in Rowe's eyes, Harriet immediately pipes in.

  "But we gottem! All of 'em! Blew the storehouse, too, jes' like ya liked!" She gets nearer again, her eyes searching Rowe's face. "That helps, right?"

  He allows a tiny smile, clutching her shoulder as he surveys the battlefield. "It's good. Good work."

  Even that is enough to make her swell.

  “Ya think that will scare them off?" Red asks, gesturing to the dozen corpses they've made. Townsfolk are starting to brave the street again. Poking heads out of doors. "They can't have much money left."

  Rowe watches older woman sprints through the mud, ruining her dress. "Never doubt that a rich man will find more money."

  “James?” The woman's voice turns harried. Panicked. “James James JAMES!"

  She slides into the dirt, grabbing the corpse, pulling it onto her lap. Her face collapses and tears well as she embraces it. "James, James, NO!"

  Harriet isn't watching her. Her eyes are firmly on Rowe. And seeing his grimace, his discomfort, she twists and shouts at the woman. "BE QUIET!"

  "Fireside!"

  "HE WAS A BANDIT! A MONSTER! WHY WON'T YA PEOPLE GET IT!? WE'RE TRYNA SAVE-" She feels a tug on her shoulder, and looks back. "What?"

  She deflates immediately when she sees the Black Prince's horror. Immediately, windchimes ring.

  "S-Sorry." She blinks a few times. "I-I'm s-sorry, I didn't-"

  As she blubbers, Rowe stares back at the grieving woman. A silent and expressionless witness to the vitriol, the hatred, seeping from her eyes.

  "Don't heed her," Red says, standing up. "He made his choice."

  "... he did." Rowe blinks, before turning away. "We need to move."

  It takes little time. Tie up the banker, water the horses, gather what ammunition they can. The wagon is stuffed with a bank safe, it's lock still unbroken. But that's another day's worry. As they ride from the town, a flag swerves from the saddle of their horses. Black as the night that takes them, with flecks of gold to match the moon.

  It's only when they reach the stables that the mother finds her voice.

  "BURN IN HELL!”

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  It spews from the tunnel in a cloud of black. A massive beast of metal, hovering above what was once a forest on a platform of wood and rails. It’s all visible from the peak they stand on. A mountain defaced, a forest cut down. The coalfire reaches their nostrils. A foul-smelling stream.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “The trees.” Harriet points to a field of nothing but stumps and rocks. “We were here jes’ ‘fore winter. They... they couldn't..."

  "Look." Red points beyond the treeline. “Fires.”

  Harriet’s eyes fan out, and her skin grows even colder. Hundreds of orange lights shine like ants over rot. "A town?"

  "No," Rowe frowns. "Soldiers."

  “Cavalry, by the look.” Red responds, dipping his hat. “Headin’ Powder way, I'd reckon. Crazy Horse finally gettin' his wish a' war."

  "We are, too."

  Harriet bites her lip. They have dozens of towns at their side, now. Places like Berkely, or Yankton, that redeemed their masters, threw off their chains. She never doubted their strength before. Never doubted her mission. But if each of those fires is an armed man...

  The Black Prince kneels down, scooping up bits of earth. He's silent, but Red can't stop talking. "We'll move faster. Respond quicker. Be outta sight before their scouts can even-"

  “It’s no longer coming." Rowe interrupts him, the sand and dust and mud slipping through his fingers. “It’s here.”

  His eyes trail up, and Harriet follows them, searching a sky smothered by clouds. The Milky Way is dim. The nebulae, mostly gone. And while she knows the train's smoke will pass, that the fires will die out, she can't help but ask: How many stars did she lose today?

  How many shine now, but will never shine again?

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “You need to hide the money.” The Black Prince punctuates his words by withdrawing a knife. Grabbing one of the roughspun sacks they've brought. “We lost them in the Hills, but they always come back."

  He cuts the cloth cleanly, and a heap of gold tumbles through. Nuggets, coins, jewelry. A few of the gathered Indians gasp. The children huddle, pointing, alerting their mothers. The man directly across the Prince is unstirred. His council is gathered around him. An old, crow-like woman, murmuring rhythmically. And to his right, a warrior, long-haired, strong, and... well... Harriet has no idea if they're a man or a woman.

  The warrior looks curiously at Rowe, their voice deep. "And where does this money come from?"

  “Bury it.” Rowe ignores them, continuing his speech as Menowin drops more sacks. “In the trails only your hunters know. Wait two seasons at least before it’s dug up, and you can’t spend it all-”

  “We’ve hidden money before.” The man in the centre interrupts.

  They’re in a massive tent, one of the dozens peppered through this patch of the plains. The canvas bathes in the orange light of a fire. Harriet’s squeezing her gun, pressing herself close to Red and trying her best to hide her fear. The Indians - Lakota, Rowe called them - weren’t exactly the monsters Pa always told her of. She’d seen a few before, through her hiding spots in bushes or caves or trees, but they were always hunters, warriors. Not the women and children here. These people wore European jackets, buckled shoes. They talked quietly, and, honestly, it seems like they were just as frightened of her.

  At least the old woman was. From the moment Harriet sat down, those blind eyes haven’t looked away.

  Her eyes gravitate to a little boy, maybe five, cuddled into his mother. He's looking at Harriet's hair. She beams at him, holding up a few wisps and then gesturing to the tent's fire. Woosh! Woosh! He grins at that, but the mother pulls him back, deeper into her chest. She glares at Harriet, hollowness in her eyes.

  The leader purses his lips. "You'll want a reward for this."

  “No.” Rowe shakes his head. “Helping someone in a time of need-”

  “Everyone,” the leader scowls. “Wants a reward."

  Rowe pauses at that, considering. "Crazy Horse is attacking settlements."

  "He is."

  "You plan to join him."

  "We do."

  "My people risk getting caught in the crosshairs." He pulls something from his coat. The Good Word. "They share as little love for the Yankees as you do. If you spare them, work with them-"

  "You want us to work with the settlers!?" The warrior starts to stand.

  "No," Red answers for him. "We wanna Montana that isn't littered with corpses."

  The man shakes his head, but Rowe presses. "We are forging a new kind of state. A new way of living. One of equality, and commonality, where a man's power can only stretch as far as he can hold. But to foster that-"

  "We already have a way of living."

  "Fer how long?" Red scowls. "Saw the herd a few mornin's past. Lookin' mighty thin."

  "We have eyes, rancher." The warrior growls. "And who do you think caused it?"

  "The government is a wound, and the more gangrenous it gets, the more it will fester." Rowe swallows. "I understand your desire for vengeance, better than most. But you have to realise this war can't be won-"

  "It's not desire," the man stands, his face bent. "It is duty. I am not going to spit on my ancestors in the name of a foreign god. They've been spit on enough already."

  "But-"

  "No. Your settlers have a choice. They can help us do right, and leave, or stick to their wrongs, and die. You can build your country elsewhere, it's a big world. In the meantime, I will offer you skins and clothes and rations. Enough to fill your wagon. Trade." He smiles. "The one good thing that came with you."

  Rowe bites his tongue, looking down. Harriet scowls. She wants to hit him, curse at him, lift her gun. But she's under closer watch. Red's already grabbed her arm.

  “Oy?yow!” Suddenly, the old woman springs to her feet. Different plates and bones on her clothes rattle with the flourish. “Oshi-sikew!”

  She points a bony hand at Harriet. The girl pales.

  “E-Excuse me?”

  “Kahpoke!" The man in the centre looks back. He sounds angry. "Han-iyá! Ahsnee kay-ya pay-”

  “Mesh-caca-kanish!”

  The woman shakes again when she sees, whirring bands of beads. This time, the tent erupts into whispers. Harriet gulps as she watches Lakota scoot away, hide their children giving her an occasional wary glance. “Wh-what’s goin’ on?”

  “Quiet,” the leader venomously cuts her off.

  “Si-te-cah!” The blind woman shakes her hand. “Kimotiw misiwe ask?y!”

  Harriet watches, terrified, as the leader looks back at her. His hand slowly shifts towards his hip. His axe.

  “Come on.” Before she can react, she’s hoisted to her feet. Menowin’s pulling her towards the tent flaps, his grip tight. “You're not wanted here.”

  “I-I don’t understand-”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I didn’t do anythin’ wrong!” She breaks out of his grip, runs to Rowe, grabs his arm. Ignoring the hisses and whispers that follow her steps. “Rowe, please. Explain ta them. Explain that I haven’t-”

  He turns, and her expression melts. It’s that same look as always. The look he always gives her. Worry and fear.

  "Si-te-cah!" "Si-te-cah!"

  She notes how many of the women and children flinch. How barely restrained the warriors seem. Her shoulders fall, and she lowers her head, fists clenched.

  “I… I’m not… we’re not…”

  She lets go of Rowe, and Menowin pulls her away.

  “I didn’t hurt them.” She whispers as the night air hits her. “I haven’t done… anythin’.”

  “It's not about what you've done."

  "Huh?" Menowin stops her, then leans down, meeting her eyes. She doesn't see his usual contempt, his usual callousness. Instead, a... knowing. An understanding.

  "To some people, blood is cursed." He takes her hand, squeezes it. "It doesn't matter who wields it, or how they wield."

  "What blood?" Harriet blinks at him. "I don't-"

  He cuts her off with a motion. His hand on her forehead. Index and thumb linking, mimicking a third eye.

  His voice is stern. "You can't make the world smile, Fireside. There's some we'll never please."

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  "Stop. We camp."

  There it is. Relief. She drops her pack, flumping into the grass the instant she hears those three angelic words.

  They always come from Rowe’s voice, and it’s always by a creek, a cliffside, somewhere with plentiful shade. The Black Prince is an aesthetic man, and only waits out the Sun in a place that will match. But it’s not the beauty of the location that usually seizes her. It’s the chance to dismount, the screaming of her thighs.

  She opens her eyes. Already, tendrils of daylight spill from the horizon. The men will pitch their tents, prepare the coffins they use for protection, start a fire. Someone will hand her something to eat, and she’ll plan on how best to use the dawn, when the game is least scarce, to hand food to them. In the summer months, she always hunts for them: deer, marmot, anything with blood.

  Hunting for herself is a different matter. Sometimes, she’ll rob a bit from their stock, but the meat is always hard and dry and juiceless. At least today, surrounded by cranes and riverflies and long stalks and reeds, she can just fish.

  Another sigh, and Harriet springs up, sauntering past Red. He's too busy fixing the bear hang to notice her. She swipes the hat off his head, puts it on her own. It doesn’t sink nearly as deep as it used to - she can still use her eyes.

  Rowe's poring over ledgers, a makeshift table, crates and crates of food. He’s… getting thinner. The cheeks a little more bony, his dark hair more unkempt when it catches the wind. It puts a pit in her stomach, the same pit that always hounds her when he looks... unwell. She tries to shrug it off, nabbing a box of... crackers, looks like... and sampling it herself.

  “Mmm.” Just as Rowe turns, she shoves her mouth with more. “Gotta shay, theshe Injunsh shure are-”

  “Mouth closed.” He smiles at her.

  She smirks back, before swallowing. “... awfully kind."

  “In some ways." His face wilts. “I’m sorry they treated you the way they did. I fear the recent incursions have roused some… superstitions.”

  “Sorry? Naw, naw, I ain’t even mad.” She's searching his face. Still long. Still worn. The pit comes back. “Did ya… really think ya could talk ta them?"

  “About peace? ... No.” He looks back to the ledgers. "But I had to try."

  A moment passes. He's breathing slowly, through his nose.

  “I fear that they will struggle as much in our world as they do in the current one. We aren’t leaving. Can't afford to, now. If they don’t accept that… I know better than most what it costs a people if they linger too far behind."

  There’s a sadness in his voice, leaking beyond the storyteller act he usually puts on for her. Harriet moves closer, a hand on his arm. “B.P…. ya alright?”

  His body shrivels, and hers follows in reply.

  “I-I jes' want ya ta know I’m here, got it? Yer doin’ good. An’... an’ if anyone tells ya otherwise, lemme know, an I’ll…”

  “I know.” Suddenly, he's turned back. His smile bolder. He pats the hat, unintentionally sinking it down. “My little sharpshooter.”

  She smiles, and pushes the hat up. “I shot Nels, two yesterdays.”

  “You mentioned.”

  “Yeah. Jes’, ya know, in case yer still, uh… nervous ‘bout me bein’ out there.”

  "I was never nervous."

  "Right." Another pause. She sighs. “Look. I-I know yer busy, know it's not a good time, but I’m ready fer whatever’s out there. I’m strong. An’... an’ I could be even stronger if-”

  “No.”

  She deflates. “Ya didn’t even hear what I was askin’.”

  He glares at her. “I didn't need to."

  “Look, I get that you think it’s a curse-”

  “Because it is."

  “- but maybe, in the - how long have I been with ya guys? Two years? - I’ve come to a different conclusion!” She folds her arms. “I’ve been patient. Haven’t asked ya in a month.”

  “Four days, actually.”

  “I’m sixteen! I-... I can make my own choices. I'm the best shot, the best rider, an'-an' if there's somethin' more I gotta do-”

  “Harriet.”

  A hitch in her breath. Rowe’s clutching her hand. She looks at it, her cheeks suddenly rosy and bright.

  He smiles and kneels down. “It’s not because of anything you have or haven't done. If it was, I’d have made you Nocturnal already.” He meets her eyes. “Do you know why I don’t have to?”

  She’s staring at him blankly. Blood pulsing where he's touched her. Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump.

  “Real strength isn’t a matter of what powers you have or what things you eat. It’s found here.” He taps her heart. “And you have that strength in spades.”

  She just stares at him. That soft smile, those warm eyes. Finally, he gets up, patting her on the shoulder.

  “Now, go help Red, would you? I think he’s struggling with the knots.”

  It takes a few moments for her to say, 'sure.'

  And only when she's well on her way, does the frustration return.

  “Urgghhhh!” Harriet mutters to herself, making wild gestures. What a load of horseshit. Strength comes from the heart? Tell that to a bear. Why did she let him-

  A ruffling interrupts her. She turns towards it, a flapping of canvas. Menowin climbs out of his tent, the tiny bells in his clothes chirring. Beyond him, she sees furs, straw. A chest.

  That piques her interest as he walks past. “Hey, uh… Rowe said we shouldn’t… keep stuff ta ourselves..."

  “Then you didn't see anything."

  He brushes past, never even glancing her way.

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  The only things Harriet knows about gypsies are what Red has told her. They're crafty, and magical, used to a life of stealing and being stolen from. It’s surprising to her, then, that Menowin has left his tent with so little guard.

  But then, this was also the man who left out his lockpicks.

  It’s a big tent, canvas with wood framing, not the lean-to’s she’d been building for half a decade. The inside is spacious enough for more than three people, replete with cots and cheap chairs. No magic or tripwires or snares of any kind. It’s not that she wants to report him to Rowe. Once, maybe, but she has no interest in heating a relationship that’s cooled. She’s just… well...

  Two years in, and he hasn't said shit about himself. Can she be blamed for... wanting more?

  Finding alone time was easy - Menowin wakes up the moment dusk breaks, an hour or so ahead of the others, to go wander somewhere he'll never tell her on a walk she can't join. So it’s just a matter of... she bites her tongue, reaches further... getting the...

  With a click, the device falls. Her eyes grow as she pulls the cover up. It’s not full of gold or cash or anything of value and sense. Just a box of knick knacks. Caltrops. Fabrics. Crystal balls and tambourines. She's about to disregard it when something catches her eye. Another case, leather, clearly worn. Carefully, she withdraws it, unclicks the latch.

  “Whoa…”

  In her hands, spun around by its neck, a large, wooden guitar.

  Still in awe, Harriet carefully presses her finger to a string. Plucks, and listens to the sound, watching the string vibrate. She does it again. And again. Two strings this time. Now three. Her smile grows as she sets it on her lap, starts strumming all five in sequence. No idea how to go further than that, but who cares? It’s a guitar! She starts fiddling with the knobs on the top. Maybe they have something to do with-

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  “AH!”

  Harriet flails, spinning about, back pressed to the trunk. Menowin is standing over her, amber eyes alight. He’s clearly not pleased.

  “Look!” She lifts her hands, guitar and all. “I-I can explain…”

  Slowly, he reaches out, snatching the guitar while she blathers on.

  “After Nels, I was jes’ wanted ta make sure... n-not that I don’t trust ya, mind! Y-y-ya’ve been good! Great! Fantastic! I-I-I’m jes’-”

  She’s interrupted by musical notes. Menowin’s hand blurs across the strings, the guitar held so she can watch them. He leans further down, pressing his index on the guitar's neck.

  “Pinch the string. Pinch. Like this.” He wiggles them so she can see, then passes her the guitar. “Try it.”

  “I…” She looks at the guitar, then him again. “Yer… yer not mad?”

  He gives her a look. “I will be if you don’t start playing.”

  That kicks her into gear. She gets back into position, pinches, plucks. Blinks. It makes a different sound. Harriet tries two fingers. Then four. Back to three.

  “And you can put on different strings. So that-”

  She doesn’t need to hear the rest. Her hand glides over the board, creating a strange harmony. Looking back at him.

  “Mmm.” He puts a hand on his hip, considering. “You wanna learn?”

  Her eyes spark. “Yes.”

  “Interesting.” Suddenly, he’s reached out, grabbing and pulling her from the tent by the ear. “You should’ve asked.”

  “OWOWOWOWOWOWOW!” She twitches and struggles to keep up, until she’s thrown into the mud by the campfire. She gets up, shouting after him. “WAIT! Wait wait wait! Teach me, please!"

  "No."

  "I'll be good! I'll be quiet! I... I'll do anythin' ya want!"

  Menowin quirks at that, turning just at the foot of his tent. "Anything?"

  A moment's pause. "... N-No..." She folds her hands, making puppy-dog eyes. "But it'd be, like, so fuckin' cool!"

  "Romani don't need instruments," he scowls at her. "They use their hands. Their voice. Pots, washboards. You could have played music any other time, but now you see something fancy and..."

  He stops. She's still giving him the puppy-dog eyes.

  A long, beleaguered sigh. "Fine."

  "Ya'll do it?" She lights up.

  "I suppose."

  "YES!" She folds her hands, her smile wide. “Thank ya thank ya thank ya-"

  “Let’s make thing clear, gadje.” He lifts a hand. “... I'm not playing kind. Make a mistake, I hit you. Whine, and I hit you. In patrin, we learn gitara fast, or we don’t learn at all. Got it?”

  “Yeah.” She nods quickly. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll learn fast. Fast as a... hare on a pound a' coffee!"

  “Good. And if I see you in my tent again, I'll add your skin to the canvas."

  He opens the flap, stepping back in. But Harriet's smile is just as bright. His threats have gotten endearing.

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  "Ah!"

  “Wrong. String is out of tune. To tune, twist but'nara.” He taps one of the knobs at the top of the guitar, his hand illuminated by the fire. “Right to make pitch high, left to make pitch low.”

  Harriet squints. “What’s it matter if it’s toned? Ow!!!”

  “Tuned.” He’s slapped her arm. “And the strings will sound wrong when you play together. Like broken song.”

  She stares at it. "H-how do I know what sounds right or wrong?”

  “You just do.”

  As they fiddle about, exchanging words and sometimes blows, two more figures sit on stumps, arms folded, watching.

  “Look at ‘em,” Red mutters, then chuckles. “Only last year, he was yammerin’ ‘bout ‘maripens’. Wanted ta leave her fer the dogs.”

  Rowe doesn't respond. His eyes, always downcast, stares into the flames. For a moment, Red settles in that silence. Watching a face turned orange by the light.

  “... what’s the next move ‘gainst Thompson?”

  “I don’t know. Another message to his investors? It doesn't seem like anything else will scare the folks back in Washington. Their army... changes things."

  “Not if we move fast. Let the Injuns distract 'em. An' them soldiers can be a blessin'. Young. Eager. Get the right words in their heads, an'-"

  "Have you ever met a soldier," Rowe interrupts. "That chose words over food or pay?"

  Laughter. From the fire pit. Menowin’s trying to pry the guitar from Harriet, but the girl keeps pushing back.

  “You’re rushing!"

  “Am not!”

  “You don’t even know what rushing means.”

  “Well whatever it means, I ain’t doin’ it!” Harriet sticks out her tongue. “Who even made you the expert?”

  “The century of practice?"

  “If ya practiced anythin', why do I still shoot better?"

  Menowin makes another go for it, and they tumble into the grass.. Eventually, the guitar is lost, forgotten, and her giggles echoing through the camp. Something hollow festers in Rowe's eyes.

  “She asked again today." His voice is quiet. “No matter what I tell her, or what warnings I give…”

  “She knows yer holdin' back, Gawen.” Red replies. “Not as young as ya'd like her ta be."

  “I know. But that doesn’t mean-”

  “But maybe it does.” Red leans closer. “Maybe she’s ready. Not fer Lightin', but... she's smart. Smart enough that we can come clean with her. 'Bout our pasts. 'Bout our plans. 'Bout..."

  Rowe blinks. Slowly, but certainly, Red’s larger hand grips his sleeve.

  “... 'bout everythin' we've been hidin' from her."

  Rowe’s expression shifts. “J-Josiah…”

  “It’s been two years, Gawen.”

  “We agreed we’d stop and focus on her.”

  “An' we have. Look." Rowe does. The hips. The face. The hair’s that’s half regrown. Red presses. “How much more is there to raise?”

  Rowe trembles. His mouth opening, then closing, then opening again. Red growls, shifting uncomfortably from the weight of it.

  “Jes’ say it.”

  Rowe blinks. “I-I…”

  “Yer actin' like it ain't happened before." Red's voice grows harsh. "But I've been out here enough times ta know these things can whisk away like the wind. It ain't that botherin' me, jes'... goddammit, Rowe, I'm still here."

  "I know."

  "It's worse when ya don't end it."

  "I know."

  "So jes' say it."

  "It's... I..."

  "Ya've been in how many wars, Rowe? An' ya ain't brave enough ta say two fuckin’ words?"

  The Black Prince closes his eyes. "It's over."

  The air seems to vanish. All around them, quiet but crickets. Red's shoulders sag, his face grows long, and he turns. Cold. So suddenly cold, despite asking, knowing, that those would be the words.

  “I’m sorry. It isn't fair."

  “Nothin' is.” He sounds more hurt than he wants to sound. “It's fine. Out here, it happens. We were jes’... fillin’ needs.”

  “It wasn't a sin. No matter what the book says, I know-"

  “Rowe." Red snaps.

  “Sorry." Rowe stops suddenly, looking back at the others. The ones who came after him. "... We're losing the war. You know that, right? The towns, the tribes, the army. Our chance is slipping away."

  Red slowly inhales. "Part of me knows."

  "And the rest?"

  "It's tellin' me that I didn't get brought back ta life so I could start gettin' mopey."

  For a moment, Rowe chuckles. Then he scrunches down, holding his knees. "I can't stop seeing her. That mother in the hills. She looked like... i-in Trelawny, the baker's wife, I-I don't remember her name, but she would give us sweets when we were kids, and she had that voice, and I... I..."

  He puts a hand over his face. Covering his eyes.

  "Why are we doing this? If we've killed them, and we lose-"

  "Ya know why."

  "But what right do I have to steal a son from his-"

  "More right than them!" Red jostles him, pulling him close. "At least we're tryin'. Live or die, I don' give too shits, least we're tryin' ta make this place better."

  "How many have said that," Rowe looks back at him emptily. "And made the world worse?"

  Red pauses, looking back. To the fire, to the Traveller, to the red-haired girl.

  “I can't lose the war again, Red. I can't... lose..."

  But it’s not Harriet that Red sees. Never, in moments like this. Instead, he sees a much smaller child. With thin lips, a mousy face, and hair of darkest browns. She was nothing like Harriet; bookish, and quiet, and prone to squeaks and hiding from neighbours and always scampering away.

  But in the deepest of griefs, the fiercest of angers, it took just one look. From the margins of her fairy books, or poking her head out from the wall. One look of those tiny, eight-year-old eyes, and the tempest, the loss, storming within Red would always settle down.

  It’s not fair, to any of them. He knows it’s unhealthy. But knowing doesn't make it stop. And he knows he'd never want it to.

  Josiah Eddards has been given a second chance. But even then, he can only see his first.

  His angel.

  His little bun.

  His Abigail.

  Lot to say about this one, but let's start with last scene! Before I'm asked, no, I don't think Red Eddards is gay, nor would he identify as such. Historical sexuality often had a lot more nuance that our current terminology can't always fit into ^^'. Red and Rowe's relationship wasn't uncommon in the Wild West, and especially among cowboys - any two people who spend months cut off from the world will be intimate with each other, no matter what their religion or society deems. Personally, I feel there's a lack of that sort of relationship in historical fiction, which is why I'm excited to mention it here :3.

  Romani (stylized as Romany) has finally been added as a language on Google Translate! I know some of you will rush to parse Menowin's words, but you might be disappointed. With Menowin, I intentionally extract words from different Romani dialects (Spanish, English, Balkan) to make the language feel a bit more out of place, even with itself. This chapter also included some excerpts of Lakota - as far as I can tell, there are three pretty distinct dialects of that language, and I chose terms from the haphazardly. This is not ideal ^^', but when depicting a Native American tribe, I wanted to make an effort at authenticity. The phrase 'Si-Te-Cah' actually comes from the Northern Paiute.

  There will only be two parts of this chapter, but because of that, you'll have to wait two weeks for the next one. See you then!