South's Valley,
a nondescript town somewhere in western America,
Some time during the 1880's...

The nights were quiet around those parts of the American wild west, if you didn't count the lawless murders by bandits and outlaws, several robberies, skirmishes with the natives out on the plains and much more. Except that, few would guess that much happened in South's Valley, especially during the nights. Of course there were the casual brawls in the saloon and drunken duels out on the streets, but that very night, it was unusually quiet. Too quiet.

Which probably explained why that night's events came as such a shock for the people of South's Valley.

It was the stable-boy who first ran to the sherrif, telling the unthinkable crime; his family's horses had vanished. Through the morning, more and more people filed their loss to the sheriff's office, who by noon estimated that half the town's horses had been stolen. The speculation flew far and wide as to whom could have done this; the neighbouring town, bandits or free-roaming Confederates, even the Jews and Catholics were to blame.

The short figure of the Kirkland family, however, had his own suspecions. One that he was determined to prove, and not just because some of his father's horses had been stolen as well. No, he had something to prove. And so the young man, known as "Jude Shorty" walked down the roofed porched of his family's home, made his way down the now crowded street of South's Valley and stopped a few people. When he asked for a specific description of another person, their response was "She's probably in the Store down there, though why would you want to speak with her?" He gave no answer back, and simply thanked them with a nod of his cowboy hat, before heading for one of the stores.

Julian entered the General Store through the open door, taking off his hat as he walked in and giving way to a lady about to exit. It didn't take long for him to find the woman he was looking for. She was easily distinquishable from the rest of the townsfolk. "Dakota, I need a word."

Wasula got her name the way many of her people had. She earned it as she grew from Little Sprout, a child, to Hair Storm, a woman. And true to her name, her long dark hair, that fell in wild waves of feather shining black, was almost always loose. It fell over her shoulders and down her back. It whipped up in the wind and sometimes tangled with the trees. Never one to mind such inconviences, Wasula left it undone and always combed her fingers through it, taming its unruly behavior every time.

Her elder brother Chaska, rightly named Eldest Son to her family, often frowned at his sister's vanity, or so he called it. But Wasula did not adorn her hair in fine thick braids, nor dress it with pale hide straps, shells, beads, feathers, or flowers. She simply let it be. Unmarried, it was not uncommon for young women of her tribe to dress up their appearances as much as possible, in hopes of luring in a fine Hunter to marry.

But Chaska was always in bad weather these days. Mother said he was in love with another tribe's maiden, sour without her sweetening, as the elder women put it. But Wasula knew it was not for lack of loving affections that her brother grew sullen and prickly as an ill-tempered bear. It was often that he escorted her to the White Men's markets. And often that he slipped White Men's coin into the palms of those who traded ill medicine, burning waters called 'al-co-hol', partaking in it till he could not find sureness in his feet nor good words on his tongue.

Wasula could not stop him though. He was second to only her father. If she ever had complaints, they would be heard by her mother first and foremost. And although Wasula did not lie, she could not bring herself to mention her brother's troubles to their mother. Sure she was that he of any of the warriors in her village could defeat the attraction to al-co-hol. He must. He was their finest Hunter and swiftest warrior.

The second night sleeping in the plains outside of South's Valley, for no sane people of the plains would willingly sleep inside the white's villages, Wasula awoke before sunrise. Her brother's sleeping skins were empty and cold, so he must either be restlessly hunting for their breakfast or asleep outside the 'sa-loon'. Wasula hoped it was not the latter, her stomach growling in contempt.

Combing out her long hair with a precious elk bone comb that had been her grandmother's, she huddled in her sleeping skins. No fire should be lit when outside the villages of the dangerous pale men, especially when her protector was not around. Wasula could of course weild her dagger, a gift and honor given to her by her father when she was grant permission to trade in markets since she knew English and some French. But a weapon carried should never give freedom to entice conflict. Especially when the pale wolves that would gladly devour your life held 'guns', takers of life with just the simple sound of thunder and a small ball of metal.

Her dark eyes scanned the plains, seeing no sign her brother would come with breakfast anytime soon. The dawn peeked shyly over the edge of the land, making it blush with fair warm colors of purple and gold. The native young woman stood, setting quietly to her task of cleaning up the humble camping site with yet another morning of an empty stomach. While her brother was to be respected, this did not mean she wouldn't rattled his sore head with many angry words.

Hiding their small camp site once more, she took up her large basket, one deep with furs, hides, shells, seeds, long lasting supplies, and edibles, and resigned herself sternly to her days work. Let her brother find her! Let him feel some shame at knowing he once more did not feed his own young sister, but left her defenseless in the plains as he lost himself to ill waters and bad ways!

With her head held high, the native woman passed through the slowly rising town, never knowing the rippling turmoil that was slowly growing. Once at the market building, or 'General Store', Wasula greeted the keep. The elder white man was not so hard eyed as the others. He and his wife saw many and knew many. Smiling to the keep and his woman, she presented each of her trading good proudly. A few shimmering shells from a forest lake earned some bread, meat and dried fruit. A well earned breakfast. Two fox furs, a water skin bag and corn seeds earned a cooking pot, five metal cooking spoons, and a tarnished hand mirror.

A good day's trade. Wasula was practically beside herself with pride. But her brother still had not found his way to her. Which meant he was probably still sleeping off his drink. The sun was well up, he would probably be accosted with a pail of old water by now. But she would find him anyway, make sure he did not get into any unnecessary fights, as a good sister should.

Going to the door, she had to stop a moment for a young white man. He was entering as she was trying to leave. He took off his hat to her, something she had seen these men do only for their own pale women. Her dark eyes watched him, saw him flicker in realization that he granted a native an honorary greeting on accident. And he seemed distressed enough by this that he wished to speak to her. Or at least this was all how it went to the best of her knowledge.

"Hee ya, no, I can not," her heavily accented English was as warm as honeyed butter in the summer plains' sun, her dark eyes watching him with a weariness hidden behind a stoney expression that would give nothing away. Many of her people wore such expressions when around the white men. No weakness should be shone to them.

She explained nothing more to him either, for why should he know that she had to look for her brother? A brother possibly still rather drunk from his night at the saloon, weakened from warrior to drunkard fool? No, he did not need to know and she did not have to tell him. If he feel foolish for greeting her with more honor than he deemed she deserved, he should overlook it. Simple as that.

At least he called her 'Dakota', which was almost 'Lakota' as her own people used. Many called them 'Sioux', a mean spirited name given by the French. She was of the Lakota people, but many men like this one before her hardly knew the difference between the many names. To them she was just another 'Indian', whatever that was suppose to mean.

"I wish to pass," she stated, lifting her chin a bit so she didn't appear meeker than him, "Please I ask you, step to side."

It must have been an interesting sight to behold to say the least, watching the short cowboy trying to get the even shorter Indian's attention right there in the General Store. For the Indian woman didn't budge an inch in face of Julian, simply wishing to be let pass and out. Julian was taken back. A combination of her outright refusal to speak with him and her voice, made the Kirkland boy stand in front of the Lakota woman, speechless for a moment. For her voice he had never heard before, and it was like nothing else he had heard either.

It must also have been embarresing for Julian, because he felt the silence get to him after that moment simply standing there. He rubbed his empty hand over his mouth, as if trying to clear the obstacle seemingly preventing him from speaking. His green eyes parted ways with the Indian's briefly, before locking onto them again. "And I said I needed to speak with you...lady."

Julian knew that this Indian usually came into town with another, her brother. So it was during the moment that their eyes didn't meet that he realized he wasn't there with her. That was not what he had planned. Not that he had that much of a plan as a whole, but he had had the start of it. But now it was only her, and her brother was...

Then it hit him. That was probably why she didn't want to speak with him; She was looking for her brother. Julian could have been wrong, but the thought stuck with him then. From what he had heard, the Indian spent most of his time in town drinking away all of his earnings, not unlike many other of his kin these days. Where he was then and there, he didn't know, but he had an educated guess.

"Okay, just hear me out, Dakota. You are looking for your brother? Because since he ain't here with you, I assume you don't know where he is. I might do, but I need your help first." Julian's voice was just as determined as the woman's composure, though it was a far fetch to say it came natural to him. Like his plan for recovering their horses, he took it one step at the time, making it up as required.

"Help me, I'll be out of your way and show you were he is."

The small pair of them were odd to behold, or so whispered the shop keep to his working wife. His wife in turn would just send a knowing glaze towards the couple, neither approving nor disapproving. It was too odd to have a stance on, at least for the worldly shopkeep's wife.

Wasula on the other hand could feel the eyes pass over her and this cattle-boy. He seemed to not quite know what to do after saying he wished to speak with her. Curious. Had he expected for her to just go along with him? She supposed women of his kind might go along with him, as unmarried girls were often more compliant towards good looking young stags, no matter the culture. Her dark eyes looked him from boot to hat, lingering on his face.

He took a moment to compose himself and she waited patiently. He would let her by once he realized she would not talk to him. Wasula supposed as far as pale men went, this one was good looking, still fresh without many scars and not stinking of smoke or drink. Though she believed all white men usually fell into ugliness sooner or later. They had too many poisons that they partook of. Sickly women who were in the trade of only pleasures for what little coin they could garner, usually in the lofts above the sa-loon. Gun powder that stung the eyes and scarred the hands when fired too often. Drink and smoking too often... He would fall like many of them did.

His hand ran over his mouth and she watched with her dark eyes framed in even darker lashes. The startling green of his eyes, a color she had never seen before but reminded her of spring time rain in the plains and the color they washed the land with, made her just a bit more patient with him. He called her 'lady' and she blinked, the only show of surprise he might see on her impassive face.

Her brows arched a bit lower, her full lips turning down slightly. If he was mocking her, as was the pass time of many white men towards native women, he would not find her compliant in his humor. What he and his kind might find funny, she found insulting. And her people were proud and confident. Lifting her chin, dark eyes seeing him through her heavy lashes as her brows arched with indignation, the dark-haired woman stood strong and as tall as she could. Looking down on him with those deep eyes of hers, Wasula felt as though she stood above him and his cruel attempt at humor.

"I am not 'Dakota'," her voice wrapped around him slightly laced with the defense at being insulted, "I am La-ko-ta." She sounded it out slowly, as if speaking to a child. "I know my brother," she further went on, "I know what he does. I know where he does not sleep." Wasula leaned forward a bit, eyes locked on to the fresh-faced cowboy. "And why of would this man," she gestured to him with an angry elegant sweep of her fingers, "need this woman." Her hand then patted her collar bone.

She was clearly suspicious of him, thinking him one who wanted to seek his thrill in a tussle with an 'Indian'. Wasula was not amused. "Go you to your women of the sa-loon," she huffed proudly, "I am more. I do not need milk-faced boy's help." Her own little dig at him, calling him both a breast feeding baby and an unknowledge boy all in one sentence. She clearly didn't think much of him or his kin, but could she be blamed? The track record of his people was not one to inspire trust, especially from a Lakota young woman without her brother's protection.

The eye-gazing didn't go unnoticed by Julian either, who found it increasingly uncomfortable to have the eyes of the shop-keeper and his wife on him. More so considering he knew them personaly, Mr. and Mrs. Rook, who probably would let his parents know of the little scene unfolding itself.

Julian couldn't help but be impressed by the Dakota woman. Or it could have been that he was still figuring out how to get her to actually help him, and utterly failing. Either way, the way she stood up to him was something he had seen in few women around those parts. They'd might not actually help you or do what you ask of them, but at least they would hear you out. The Dakota however, she wasn't having it.

Again she spoke, and again it was something about her voice that was warm and excotic. What she said however, was far from being warm and what Julian later could call angel-like. Whatever it was Julian had said, she wasn't impressed by it. In fact, her words were a mix of insults and proud rejection, whatever you'd call it.

Lakota, not Dakota as Julian had called her. That was the first thing she shot back at him with, clearly insulted by what he had said. And to be frank, that might actually have been right, Julian got all the different tribes of Indians mixed up. So far, he wasn't off to a good start. And she only continued on talking him down, even if she was a few inches shorter than him. Even if she was just an Indian, he felt embarresed.

And yet, while she spoke down to him, he had to acknowledge one thing about her; her stunbornness and pride only gave her already good looks more depths, so to speak. He had seen Indians before, but he had to admit that her long, dark hair and red-ish skin was for a lack of better words, 'Pretty'. Julian didn't know all to many words to describe that, but it was enough.

"What, no. No!" Julian's cheeks had turned a darker shade of pink after what the Dakota...Lakota said. Regardless of what she could possible suspect of him, having his way with her like that had never crossed his mind. It just felt wrong, strange and wrong when she said it, especially when he had never actually done 'that'. Was that she thought the white man wanted? "That's not what I meant, Da...Lakota. I need help to find our stolen horses, nothing else!"

The pinkish color soon faded away from Julian's cheeks as he focused on what he actually wanted from her. "I don't know if you've heard, but half the town's horses was stolen last night. I intend to do something about that, but I need help. And you need your brother for protection, I assume, so don't we help each other out?"

The youthful man seemed as wary of prying eyes as she was, though most likely for different reasons. Wouldn't want his intended or sweetheart getting the wrong idea of dallying with a 'squaw', the white man's more offensive twisting term for a native woman that actually was suppose to mean wife in some languages. But they were never terrible bothered by their inaccuracy, now where they?

Case in point, even this man seemed to both be dazed by her and yet intent on lording over her. Strength in young men was respected by women of her tribe, but only when they deserved respect and gave it in kind. Women were suppose to do as men said, to save the Warriors pride among their comrades, but only in meaningful situations. A woman always had power of her own, a voice that should be heeded since they were the closest to Mother Earth and givers of life as well as nurturers.

Life was always to be in balance. But white men had no balance. Many thought them more superior than the women they laid with, making them slaves to pleasure above their sa-loons or beating them to submission with words or fists in other aspects of life. They could not even respect their horses enough to keep them well fed, groomed and seen to. How many had she seen with burrs or shorn tails from the laziness of their owners?

Clucking her tongue, she shook her head. Her high cheek bones and the slight aristocratic arch of her straight nose added to her flashing dark eyes filled with pride and wariness of him. Long silken dark hair down her back and over her shoulder, Wasula watched the young man. His youthful and handsome features seemed both surprised and shamed by her cutting sharp-tongued words. But it seemed he had more of a boyish tendency to being embarrassed, than his older men's kind of tendency to get angry to hide any unsavory feelings.

Her expression softened slightly, though her chin was still tipped up in that proud way, dark eyes flashing as they watched him. He stumbled over his words, changing colors in a way that kept her eyes on him in a different light. Curiously, Wasula watched as his pale face changed to pink and then to red. Her people blushed of course, but there was suck a stark difference since he was so pale... He looked like a budding flower or a white wild strawberry gaining its color. Rather...fascinating to watch actually...

He also tried to correct himself, to keep from his habit of calling her 'Dakota', which gained another grain in good regard. He obviously also did not know of women in such fashions, which she found oddly endearing. Many of the white men claimed their women should be unknowing in the ways of the marriage bed before committing themselves, though Wasula found this foolish. Inexpeierenced couplings were often uncomfortable and awkward, not pleasant for celebrating the fresh flower of marriage if you asked her.

Men of her tribe were often taught by widows or non-related aunts or even just elder unmarried ones in the ways of women. Women more discreetly chose 'playmates' to learn with, usually taking lessons with young warriors or unmarried men out in the plains. So as long as the young woman did not spend too long in dallying or sleep till morning with the man, her experiences were respected as the growing of girl to woman, readying herself for whichever man she chose to marry. Though...sometimes fathers were pursuaded to give their daughters to warriors for many horses... Of course, if the daughter found her new husband wanting, she could always chose another man, though it would shame her unwanted husband unless an agreement was made with him...

Needless to say, it was far more free than the white man's ways, but still had structure and respect in it regardless. Wasula herself was not so unexpierenced, but still did blush at forwards advances of men. Blinking slowly, question as to what white men did when courting crossed her eyes as she looked at the stammering young stag in front of her.

His mention of stolen horse caught her attention. She rose a brow and frowned a bit. Half the horses in his town? Must be many horses... Too many for a wild stallion to tempt away. So he must have assumed it was humans. And many tribes were known for raiding for horses to grow the prowess of young warriors... He suggested she help him, if she wanted to get back to her brother. Her frown deepened. Did he then suggest her brother was in the holding cells of the place his people called ja-il? Often drunks who were unruly went there. And her brother had been in one once before. Her brother being native, she had to beg the help of tradesman to help vouch for his release. White men often enjoyed tormenting 'red devils' and were not often just in their sentencings...

"Young man wishes to gain honor among his people in regaining many horses," she nodded with some understanding, "Such things are common among The People." She spoke of the many so-called 'Indians' as one. The People. While they fought one another sometimes, respect was due even to enemies... At least when compared to white men. "Another young warrior or maybe more in raiding party stole away horses to bring home," she guesses with one of his people's gestures called a shrug, "Raiding many horses is great skill and impresses many. Raiding back is difficult... Tracking raiding parties is impossible for White Man alone."

Wasula seemed to realize them why he was talking to her. She was small, vulnerable, but knew English and was native. Her brother could refuse this young man with ease. She, however, would have more difficulty. Perhaps he was not so boyish as she first thought. His strategy was sound, even if she did not like in the least being his target. Never the less, he gained a bit more favor from her for his use of wit instead of brawn. Many a man might have simple overpowered her and forced her to do as they wished. This young man bargained. Wasula begrudgingly had to respect that.

"Young man wants to be warrior, track raiding party and take back horses to gain honor before his people," she looked him up and down, tilting her head a bit as she thought, "Knowing he could not do so alone, he comes to Wasula..." Speaking her thoughts out loud seemed to be an offer into how she viewed him and the situation, an honor given to him in return for being more of wit than brawn.

"Smart," she nodded once, her only compliment, "I will help, but only to gain back my brother. When you gain back horses, you are on your own." Her dark eyes twinkled with a soft knowing. "Raiding party may not be happy with you... But gain of respect from both village and town will be won. Makes men of boys, respect from many."

"I will help," she nodded once again, dark eyes appraising him once more, wondering if he was up to such a task as raiding horses. That was if they were taken by natives in the first place... Though such situations were common enough among The People that it seemed more likely an over zealous raiding party of young men than anything else.

If there was two things Julian knew about the Indians, Lakota or Dakota or whatever you'd call them, it was that they were 'primitive' and rather blunt about their intentions. Now Julian hadn't met many Indians in his life, save from Wasula standing in front of him, but he had met a few, and a tenfold more stories about them from other experienced men; they lived humbly in their tents out on the praire, isolated from there rest of civilization with only the buffalo hides keeping the cold winds away. No contact with the outside world except from the few who went out to trade, like the Indian siblings.

Julian could perhaps see the comfort of such a simple life, but in truth he felt it was too simple, too repetitive and boring. He and his family lived in a decently warm house when the winter winds blew across South's Valley, had a good kitchen for his mama to cook and good beds for all to sleep in. The town had shops, people, friends and new stories from the outside world! More excitement than simply spending your whole life following the buffalo. That was partly why he didn't really understand the woman in front of him.

Especially once she continued to speak. Julian's mouth couldn't decide whether to rest open or stay shut as Wasula pretty much summed up what he had planned to do, even getting unpleasently close to the motivation behind his little scheme. And though he hadn't initally thought on gaining the assistance of the Indian herself, he wasn't about to argue with the stubborn woman accepting his request for help. Stubborn, and strangely intellectual in her logic, like a city gal.

Julian smiled half surprised, half proud of himself as she gave him what he guessed was the closest thing he'd get to a compliment from the redskin, nodding his head in agreement as she finall said those last three words; 'I will help'. And here Julian had thought he actually had to force her, not that he'd know how to. "Good...great, I'm happy we could...come to an agreement, Wasula?" Julian's voice was showing less signs of the earlier embarresment, while his composure showed a growing sense of determination. Even if he...they had just started on his little quest, this part always felt like the hardest to get through. Now they had a start.

"My name's Julian, by the way. Julian Kirkland. In case you want to call me something else than 'young man'. I am 26 after all. Come on." Julian had started to walk for the door and leave, when he realized she might not have followed him outside at all. It was after all he who had stopped her from leaving just a few moments earlier, and he hadn't exactly been very detailed in what he was...they were going to do. And so the white man stopped in his tracks, turning around and looking at the Indian behind him. And again he couldn't help but take in her looks, admiring her for a moment before she follow. She was an odd woman indeed.

"I don't know about you, but I'd like to leave South's Valley as soon as possible. Those who took the horses are probably far away already, but I don't want to trail to get any colder, as you can probably understand. Is there anything you need to take with you, Wasula? I can get it if it's something you need from the shops."

Wasula knew this man, just as she knew all white men. He thought himself better than her, with or without meanness in his spirit. He had been taught that he was more civilized, more educated, simply more than her. Yet he couldn't find horses that had been raided, nor perhaps even survive against all the harshness that the bare lands provided without his small house (tent), his band of companions or his large sticking out cooking fire.

He thought he knew her. She lifted a brow at him and smiled slowly. Knowingly, sharp and wise. He was fair, for one of his people, but he was too different from her and taught he knew so much, like children often did before coming adults. And adults before becoming elders. Bound by what he thought he knew, she should not judge him too harshly for his ignorance. Perhaps she could teach him something more, the truth of her people, how they lived, worked, played. How free they were.

Of course, he could be too full already of what he thought he knew. A cup too full could not be added too for it would only spill out anything added to it. The native woman let out a small amused noise. And dry was that amusement. But she said nothing further, for she had already agreed to help him and had already made her distaste for ill treatment known to him. He gave her a half a smile and she returned it, still uncertain of how to take him.

"Six and twenty is young," she snorted, but smiled, teasing him, "Or perhaps he wishes me call him 'Old Man'? Yes, yes, Ju-li-an Kirk-land, lead way. This woman will follow." She brushed her hand through the air and as he turned spoke once more. "Old Man go forward, Wasula will follow." A mischievous grin, rather proud of herself, she laughed softly. But he turned again and looked at her. He gave her an odd look, as if he were looking deeper and through to her spirit, reading her but confused by the foreign language.

"As long as there is no rain, Wasula will see their trail," she gave him a tilting up of her chin, "Young men are often clumsy in hiding their trail from White Men, since White Men are blind and do not see like The People." Clearly she spoke as this were just fact and did not mean to be harsh. Even if it sounded harsh. But it was true. Only One of the People could find a path of one of their own. Tilting her dark head, long hair falling over her shoulder like a raven lowering its wing. Her depthless eyes looked back at him like midnight pools reflecting all and showing no secrets.

"Leaving soon is good," she lifted the basket in her hands up a little higher, trying to balance its weight once more, "But I do not see how a trail can become 'cold' as you say. Only rain and time wash and wear away at trails..." She shook her head a bit, as if putting to bed his curious use of language. "The camp of my brother and I is outside this village," she nodded down to her basket, "I will place these things and take any necessary things from there." She gave him a cautious look. Her brother wouldn't be happy for her to take him there but... "You will come too." Anything she needed, she already had at the camp. And it would do him some good seeing her life.

Did she...did she just call Julian old? The very reason Julian had stated his age to her was so that she wouldn't call refer to him by it, and now she was already calling him 'old man'. And really, had she done nothing else but make fun of him and throw sarcastic comments his way? Most people Julian knew who did that were either close friends who felt safe in their friendship to make such jokes, or had a special grudge again one.

Perhaps she was of the latter? Not that he could blame her, the situation he was pulling her into wasn't exactly a 'walk in the park', whatever the city folk meant by that. And then it was the whole tense situation between the people of South's Valley and the Indians, or the whole country for that matter. But did she have to tease him like that, just because they were two different people? Perhaps, perhaps not...

But Julian found a smile one his face again as he heard her laughter escape her lips. It was soft, gentle, like the shiver you felt when someone tickled you, only better. He felt no evil intention in that, even if she was a savage, probably not even a Christian, so how could he help but not smile. "Call me old man again, and I'll be forced to give you a nickname too."

He wasn't going to argue with her matter-of-factly argument that the White Man simply couldn't follow the trail of 'The People', probably referring to the Indians as a whole. Firstly, he already understood that she didn't think highly of his kind, and frankly had had enough of that conversation for the day. Secondly, that was the reason he wanted her help in the first place, didn't she get that? But thirdly, a reason he felt compelled to push through the more he spoke with her, was that he wanted to prove her wrong. If that was even possible, he didn't know, but he would sure as hell try.

"Old man will follow, if you so wish. Lead the way." Julian said to Wasula, holding out his hand as a gesture of her to take the lead. He smiled teasingly, jokingly using the name she gave him. A name he didn't like, but one he would use as long as he could call her...something. He just needed to come up with something clever and witty...

"And when we've gotten your things, I'll just run by home and get what I need, and we'll be off. And by the way, Sharp-tounged Woman..." Julian, now standing outside beside Wasula as they had begun to make their way for her camp, looked up at the sky with his hand covered over his eyes and scanning the horizon. He chuckled after a brief moment of silence, before looking at Wasula's face, now illuminated in the soon to be midday sun and giving her black hair an even finer look. "...the blind white man thinks it will rain later. If I'm right, you'll stop calling me old man. If I'm wrong...well, you decide. Deal?"

Wasula thought his confusion was rather amusing. He always seemed so surprised at what she might say. Old or young, he was prickly about his age like a young an untried warrior who wished so badly to prove himself. Did he think she would be friendly and amendable, truly? Why should she be? He was a stranger using her as a pawn to get what he wanted. It was the way of his people.

But that didn't mean she had to like it. A grudge? None so deep, perhaps, but really what reason did she have to like or trust him? His people were always showing one face and holding another close to their heart. One could smile and speak sweet words one day, then spew venom and malcontent the next. Like the winter season with its pale beauty and slowly killing kiss.

While there was a bitterness in her heart for his winter coloring, she could not bring herself to hate him with reason. She didn't mind him much, though Wasula didn't quite like his negotiating skills. But if she had purely disliked him, she would have rejected his mission entirely, and loudly at that. But this young cowhand seemed a little more sweet sap than bitter bark.

He smiled like spring sun after a steady rain. She could see his handsomeness a bit better, though his features were still rather alien to her. Her dark eyes could also see the glimpses of the boy he used to be, as well as the man he might become someday. Was he so adamant to prove himself to impress more than just the people of South's Valley, then? A young maiden captured the arch of his bow and bade him forward? A knowing smile curved her lips. She was not so old and bitter beyond her young years to leave all romanticism behind.

A pleasant cause, gaining back stolen horses to gain honor so that the heart of maiden could be won. Wasula had hoped for something similar from a young warrior two or three summers back. Her elder brother had swiftly put an end to all of that. It was in his nature. While this young Old Man had the caress of winter in his coloring, her brother had it in his heart and actions.

"A 'nickname'?" She mused before continuing, "Ah, ah, ah, yes. A name of likeness. Well, call me as you like, but different names will earn different actions." And by that she meant if he called her something nice, she would respond a bit nicer. Any slur and he might not like tugging on the ear of the little she-wolf. Her dark hair fell down her back as she raised her head and gave him a faint smile.

"Very well," she nodded once, taking lead of their walk, her steps sure and swift, "This Sharp-Tongued Woman will lead you. But mind no foot of yours falls into a burrow. Broken ankles do not carry men to places they seek very quickly." It was just a small jest, but by her subtle influx of tone it might be hard to tell. That and without her expressive eyes, her mood was a bit more brisk and difficult to translate.

"If you fall," she continued, "I may have to call you by another 'nickname' and you might have to call me She Laughs." Her soft huff of a laugh answered his chuckle. As for his little deal, she gave another small huff. "Why should a bet be made on a fact that is known?" Her rich voice held some mirth to it, "If This One knows it and I suspect it, then it is a known bet to whom the loser will be." She gave a bit more of scoff and turned her cheek to raise a brow at him. "Why should I fall into a game where I know I will lose?"

"That," she turned to face forwards once more, "and I have much liking to call you by other names. It makes your face show many colors and expressions." Her dark hair swung behind her like a laughing painted woman's veil. Teasing him seemed to bring her a bit more than light pleasure. The rest of the way was lead with little talking on her part, though they got to her and her brother's camp the sun was far brighter. Morning gave to the fresh start of day and the 'camp' as she had called it... Well it was quite difficult to tell apart from the plains itself.

The tall grass was only brushed down a bit around a lone standing tree, a thin stream snaking its way through the rock and roots secretively. There was no horse, no tent, not even a foreseeable fire pit. If her brother had lit any fire, usually during the night and only for quick cooking, the ashes were buried under small rocks. Any belongings were strung high up in the tree's branches, which Wasula nimbly climbed up to rifle through. The area where the grass had been pushed down was the area where she had woken up alone just that morning.

Fitting the valuables up, up, up, deep in the branches of the tree where even the Young Man could not see, the dark haired woman came back down almost as quietly as she had gone up. Every agile move seemed to come in time the rustling of the trees leaves and every motion she had made while up there had been just as soft.

Once more on the ground with the Young Man, Wasula looked at him. Wind swept over the grass and across her cheek, her dark silk hair brushing against her cheek. "I have done as I said," she tilted her head towards him, her crystal clear expression somehow both open and yet yielding nothing all at once, "We now go to your hut."

So he had said himself. And leaving the 'camp' it was almost indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape, besides the lone tree. Though in truth one lone tree looked like many others. Without Wasula to guide to which tree, it would be extremely difficult for the untrained eye. Though even a seasoned Hunter would have difficulties finding a camp that did not belong to him.

"She who Laughs. Now that is something worthy a nickname, but it won't be of me your laughter is caused by, She who Laughs." Julian felt himself tensing less up around the Indian, as they made their way to what Wasula had called her and her brother's 'camp'. It was something in her lighter tone and the smile she gave him that seemed to melt the winter snow around Julian's impression of the Native girl leading him out to God knew where. He'd be damned, she had a sense of humour, not something the Indians were famed for around the White Man.

Julian's boots made little impression on the dry dirt they walked across, but the heavier thuds of his heels distinquished him from the quiet grace of Wasula's light feet. So perhaps it was true, the Indians were so One-with-nature that they even left no prints? Whatever he had believed before, Wasula was giving him doubts that he could have done this without her. And thankfully she was far from a sore thing for the eye to behold, so at least the American cowboy wouldn't have to worry about that out there.

The young man gave Wasula an amused look, once again smiling at her questioning why to partake in a bet she was sure to lose. "For the fun of it? The thrill of the slighest chance to succeed? But I can't force you into it, even if the bet still stand upon until the rain starts pouring down on us." Julian continued his pace beside Wasula, raising his brows for the latter thing she said. Change his colour and expressions? Was his face that interesting to the Indian?

The alieness of the Indian never ceased to surprise Julian, who simply looked bewildered at the lone tree Wasula decided to climb up for no apparent reason. "...Ehm...What are you...?" Julian's words were cut off when Wasula gracefully climbed back down from the tree, now with what he could only assume were her sparse posessions. The wind blew her dark hair against her cheek, only making the young cowboy struggle to find the words for that small moment of him simply taking in what was actually happening; who was standing before him, and her look.

"My hut...yeah, my hut. It's this way, come on." Julian finally managed to regain what little control he actually needed to function like a normal human being, pointing away from the tree she had just climbed up and down from and somewhere just outside of town. It wasn't too far a walk, perhaps quarter of an hour. They could easily see it before they reached it. The Kirkland Ranch.

What was visible first, was the large barn dominating the ranch and serving as its middle point. Beiside it was a dozen of cattle, all fenced in with thick, wooden fences in a large square, enough for a few dozen cattle more. Between the barn and the other buildings ran a larger crowd of chickens, chased by the children of one of the farmhands for their own amusement. A few smaller houses dotted the surroundings, storage and homes of those working at the ranch.

Julian wasn't heading to any of those buildings, but the two-storied home situated facing the town. A rocking-chair rocked back and forth at the porch by an older lady, who didn't seem to be concerned about Julian's approach at first. But when she, and the other folk noticed the Indian, she slowly got up from the chair and shouted. -"Will! Come out, now!"

"Don't worry, my father won't hurt you. Just let me talk him down, okay?" Julian tried to say calmly to Wasula, though his concern wasn't that easy to hide. Especially when the older man, sporting a large moustache and a rifle exited the front door to witness Julian with the Indian. Julian's father was not amused. -"What in the name of God Almighty is She doing here, Julian Kirkland? Is she the one who stole our horses? For if she is, I swear to God that I will shoot her and her damn savage fo..."

"No father, no! She didn't take them, but she will help me find them and bring the horses back."

-"...you got to be kidding me...damnit young man"

-"William, watch your mouth!" Julian's mother wasn't fond of Indians, but she was even less eager to let her husband return to his old habit of swearing at strangers. Shooting them too for that matter.

-"Julian, are you serious about this?"

"I won't be gone for too long, only a week at most. I'm sure that they took our horses, and..."

-"And what, young man? You're going to do what your brother couldn't? This is a job for the Sheriff, not you, Julian."

"No father. The Sheriff won't fix this, he never does. Just let me get my things and I'll be back within a week at most."

-"...If you don't come back within a reasonable amount of time, I'm putting HER personally responsible, and They'll have to pay."

Julian only nodded to his father after this short and awkward exchange, the very conversation he had hoped to avoid but knew he probably couldn't escape. He walked quickly past his father, slow past his mother giving him a grieving look, before soon coming back out of the house now carrying a satchel and a rifle across his shoulder. His mother gave him a brief hug and kissed him on his cheek, while his father only sighed angrily at his only remaining son who was repeating his brother's mistake. But he couldn't stop him. It ran in the Kirkland blood.

"I'm ready, let's go." Julian's words were flat and direct, clearly lacking the surprised tone or positive bantering earlier displayed as he now simply gave Wasula a quick look and walking off. Yes, they were walking for now, seen as their horses too had been stolen. That was why the fenced area was so empty.

The young man teased his way back, seeming to loosen up a bit. The air around the two of them seemed to soften some, though it all stilled when at the 'camp' of her brother. Her long limbs, shapely and curving, carried her with all the grace and agility of a wild creature. Her silk black hair swung and floated about with her every movement, and her almond eyes fixed on him when he spoke. Her full lips tilted ever so slightly into a smile and she raised a brow at him. The small expanse of her waist gave way to a soft swell of hips that moved in the naturally seductive way that all women walked in. Without the heavy multitude of skirts that the white women wore, it was far too easy to become entranced by that feminine waltz of a walk.

Ju-li-an walked heavy on the earth, leaving prints like a young stud horse might, unknowingly announcing his existence to every creature that came across his path. Wasula thought it a bit humorous since he sort of reminded her of those young stallions that pranced about, wanting to show off for one and all. She could almost see him side step dance like a stallion in front of a line of pretty young mares. His heavy-heeled boots would kick up quite the dust storm to show off his youthful power.

With a soft humming, mostly to herself, Wasula let her traveling pack settle on her back, the wind rustling up her dark hair to swirl it about her bare shoulders. She still didn't completely understand his idea of betting on something that was sure to be a losing bet. Old men and warriors often bet stones or shells or bones in their games, so she knew some of the betting rules. It seemed rather foolish to bet on a horse one knew was lame to jump high without injury. She did listen to his view on it though, even if she didn't understand his point of view. Instead she just a few small nods, to show him she listened and thought about it. Though Ju-li-an seemed to think about things quietly just like her.

He had been surprised at her climbing of the tree, and just as surprised at the sight of her before him, like it was all sinking in. He was receiving help from an 'Indian'. She could share the sentiment. It was an odd thing to be in front of someone and yet feel worlds away. What was he thinking? How did he see things? What did it all drive him to act on? But such curiosities were dangerous, even with someone like this man who appeared to be more peaceful than most of his people.

Following him as he led the way to him home, Wasula watched how he walked. Heavy footed, though it was little wonder considering how heavy all his clothes and things seemed to layer on him. A small swagger in his walk, like the natural showings of manhood confidence in most steps of men. His body led more with his shoulders than his chest. Young men of her people walked with heads up high and chests out, always sure-footed even in unknown terrain. Ju-li-an seemed to absently keep in mind where his feet led him. It was an interesting thing to watch for Wasula, to notice these little difference. It made him more and more of a curiosity. Her dark eyes strayed down his shoulders, down the line of his spine and to his backside. What? Any red-blooded woman would look, especially when so intrigued by someone so alien to them. It was a nice sight, though he was covered more than most men she was used to seeing. He would probably look far more handsome in fitted leggings and a war shirt, though that could just be her biased.

Arriving at his 'ranch' Wasula peered around in alertness, slowly and unassuming, but always cautious. She may trust the young cow-boy something more than the shopkeeper in town, but his family did not earn any of her trust. After all, blood-kin could be as different as she was from her own brother. A large hut for livestock called a 'barn' loomed like a bulky half-mountain, the center of this ranch. Cattle, beasts more docile and kin to buffalo, a favor keeping herd to the white man, sauntered about in their open-aired cages. Ah, 'fences' that was the word. White men sure were lazy, raising their game where it could not flee and give proper honor to the meat. But then again, not many white men knew of true honor.

Of course, her white man seemed to have more honor than most, but perhaps that was because he was still young. Ah, but he was older than her. She forgot sometimes, his features always coloring towards the shy innocence of youth. Chickens in a large wake spread about noisily as pale-skinned children ran about chasing them. At least the actions of children were still akin to those of her people. The children stilled some, watching her walk with Julian, gleaming curiosity and slight fear in their eyes. What horrible stories did their parents tell them about people with dark skin reddened by the heathen sun? She didn't have to imagine too hard. Children of her tribe heard ghastly stories of white men enough to give a few nightmares.

Wasula stopped two feet behind Ju-li-an, the bigger hut- er, 'house' apparently the one belonging to his family. Wasula vaguely wondered how a floor could be stacked up on top of the first level to make it so tall. Didn't the floor ever fall through the top of the first level? She dismissed the line of intrigue to focus on the fearful woman sitting in the swaying seat who called to someone inside. Ju-li-an's mother? But why did she shout so fearfully? Wasula had no weapon in her hands, didn't make any sounds, and was being led by Ju-li-an. Why should this woman be so afraid? Baffled, she felt as though she didn't quite believe Ju-li-an about his father not hurting her.

When the white man who must be his father came out bristled up worse than a sour-tounged rattlesnake, carrying a gun he seemed all too ready to use, her doubts multiplied. Her distanced from Ju-li-an lessened quickly, till she was standing just behind his left arm, dark eyes watching the old white man on the porch wearily. Though the mention that Wasula was a horse thief struck hard, almost as if she had been punched in the gut and kicked while down. To be called a horse thief was a shaming insult. Raiding horses was one thing. Stealing them for greed was quite another. Her face reddened a bit in anger, though she did her best to school her features into a stoic mask. It seemed as though she had many different tones of a stoic face, because this one was hard and intense, very unlike her softer one when talking with the young cowboy.

Savage. A hideous term she was well aquatinted with. As if greedy white men knew the meaning to such a word. She let the old man have a morsel of a glare when he said he would kill her if Ju-li-an died. Foolish old man just wanted to kill her because she wasn't white. He didn't need a reason, but he presented one to everyone else as the labeling cause of his dislike. Wasula was all too familiar with this too. How could he hate someone he didn't even know? Easy. She didn't look like his people, she didn't act like his people, she was different and different needed to be erased from existence. Hateful man.

Ju-li-an left her outside, entering the stacked 'house'. Leaving her to stare down the hateful father of his and his wary mother. She kept her head high, her face impassive, and her eyes on the old man and his gun. There was nothing she could say to make this situation better. Any words from her would only anger the old man. And his trigger finger seemed to easily tempted. Afraid of an unarmed woman, her thoughts scoffed in disbelief, How weak he must be. The young cowboy kissed his mother goodbye before trotting down the porch stairs to her. Wasula said nothing as he mutely stated they were leaving. She pressed her lips together firmly.

She followed him, as the white folk liked it to be when walking with an 'Indian', her head high and back straight, each step confident, graceful and soft. They walked in tense silence for a while. She hadn't expected anything more than what had just happened, but it still hurt. To be seen as a petty, greedy thief. A viper waiting to strike. A vile creature who was less than simply due to her background and skin color. Once well away from his family's 'ranch', Wasula quickened her feather soft steps and took the lead. Maybe Ju-lian had forgotten, being reminded that he was 'better' than a savage like her, but he didn't know where he was going. They would circle the town till she found the trail. Such a large band of horses and raiders would leave a mark on the land, even if there was an attempt to cover it all up.

"What happened to your brother?" she asked suddenly and bluntly, her voice as tense and tight as when he had first spoken to her.

"What?"

Julian, absent in his mind as well as his surroundings, hadn't payed attention to anything since he told Wasula to follow him. Something troubled him, something that he clearly had to carry with a heavy heart and mind, as the unlikely duo of Cowboy and Indian walked…somewhere. It wasn't the fear of the coming chase for the horses; it wasn't the ridicule or frowns of the townsfolk once they'd all hear about this; it wasn't his fear that Wasula might abandon him somewhere out on the prairie for him to die, or worse, stab him in the back. No, it was his father's words, and his mother's look. It was his brother.

The young cowboy gave a blank look at Wasula when she quickened her pace, coming up beside him and taking the lead. It was as if he hadn't heard her question, though he had. It just took a while for the absent-minded cowboy to realize what he questions was. His absent eyes focused on Wasula, his back straightening back up and his stride regaining a sense of purpose, as he looked at his Indian friend. Friend?

"Oh yes, my brother…It was a long time ago, when I was just a kid. He went out one night, determined to find some outlaws stealing our cattle. Chris…Christopher never returned. That's why my father and mother reacted like that, not because of you. I don't think you're a 'savage'…" Julian's words were loaded with emotion, a sense of sadness and remorse filling his tounge as the words escaped, yet precise in their statement. To people unfamiliar with Julian, they'd probably find pity in his brother's fate and move on. But to those that knew him, maybe they could sense something else; perhaps an rehearsed line and untold facts?

Who knew what Wasula would think of them?

Julian turned his gaze away from Wasula, realizing he was letting his eyes wander over her slender body in ways he barely had done to other girls…women. Even for his saddened words, he found some comfort in simply looking at her, like at least she was something good in that God-forsaken spot of land. But he didn't tell her, that would be wrong. Instead he looked forward, into the distant horizon. "Where to? I'm following you it would seem."