The Buffalo Hide

Introducing The Buffalo Hide Soundtrack! For notes on the music, view chapter 3. Follow this link and click "Listen to Playlist": http://listen.grooveshark.com/playlist/The_Buffalo_Hide/85461

This chapter is kinda long, but is that really a bad thing? I wanted Sess to show up here, and couldn't find a place I was happy to cut it without bumping him to chapter 3. Oh well! I'm the Peter Jackson of fanfic writing (I never know when to end a scene).

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Ch. 2 - The Messenger

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"It will be chilly tonight, Kagome," her mother called from her watchful position over the kitchen fire. "Remember to take your white buffalo hide coat!"

Growling in adolescent agitation, Kagome resisted the urge to roll her eyes, no matter that her mother couldn't see. She truly loved her mother, but even with a sturdy command of the English language the woman often phrased things in a Japanese manner, with a windy string of literalism that took forever to get the point across. It was pleasant poetry on most occasions, but Kagome didn't need reminding that her cool weather coat was not the most fashionable barn dance accessory. It was gorgeous in its own right, she'd never begrudge her father that, but even as precious a birthday gift as it was, and as toasty as she felt snuggled in its softness, it was lamb's wool on a wolf according to her prissy clique of tormentors.

Really nothing more than a cloak, the pelt had a small, polished animal bone button fastened underneath her chin that formed a rudimentary hood. Apparently whomever originally obtained it was hesitant to sew it into any more snug of a shape, keeping its authenticity as something wild and primitive, almost to the point of being sacred. Every time she handled it too casually, Kagome felt a little ashamed.

She sighed, hating that she could succumb to embarrassment instead of appreciating her buffalo hide coat for the treasure it was. With renewed affection, she patted her hand across its plush length draped over her vanity chair. No one had any right to make fun of her father's gift. She shouldn't care if it was made of goosefeathers. It was special to her, and for no other reason, she should be proud to show it off.

Kagome took a determined breath, checked and double checked the curls in her hair and smoothed out her dress, then gathered her coat and skipped from her room, stopping by the kitchen to give her mother a quick, reassuring peck on the cheek and to steal one of the sweet rolls left over from lunch.

Her mother cut her a chastising glance. "I was saving those for your father and Mr. Beaudine."

Kagome instantly perked up. "One of the Beaudines is here?" she blurted around a mouth full of dough, spitting some crumbs in the process.

Huffing, her mother brandished a dishrag from thin air and attempted to wipe Kagome's lips clean off her face, or at least that's what it felt like. Kagome squirmed impatiently. "Mama! Stop it!"

"I would not have to do anything if you would eat like a lady." She retreated and snapped the towel over the drying peg. "But yes, Mr. Orion Beaudine is coming by to discuss some sort of scouting business with your father. I still have to check on the corn pones and he should be here any –"

Both women heard the front door snap open and two men clasp hands in hearty welcome.

"– minute." Haruka, ever the perfectionist when it came to hospitality, regardless if they were a stranger, an old friend or a firing squad, started running around the kitchen like a headless chicken. "Kuso! The sweet potatoes! Kagome-chan," she wheeled around with the pleading look no one in her family could ever decline, "would you please serve the stew and take it out to the table for me?"

"Alright," Kagome relented with a sigh, "but when Ayame gets here I have to go, okay?"

"Fine, fine," her mother shooed her off, "just as long as the men are fed I'm happy!"

Kagome poured and carried two cast iron bowls of steaming venison stew down the short hallway, trying her hardest not to trip in the wane light as the sun was beginning its descent, filtering its light at odd angles, and with winter approaching candles and oil lamps were rationed to the common areas.

She was always excited to see one of the Beaudines drop by for a visit. A little over a decade older than her father, both Orion and Joseph Beaudine and their families were the other handful of good people who readily accepted Haruka into Ft. Laramie life. In the months before she was born, Orion's wife Sarah had come by with Joseph's wife Annie Rose and the gregarious matriarch of the Beaudine clan, their stepmother Florence, bringing a dish of meal-fried chicken and biscuits to welcome the Hendersons home to their new farm. Josiah's military experience and the hunting skills instilled by his long-passed father had made him a perfect candidate for scouting missions around the fort, and being in such close association with the other notable local scouts, the Beaudine brothers, lead to a lasting friendship. Oftentimes Kagome couldn't help but notice how their goodnatured roughhousing, be it verbal or the silly, competitive posturing men were supposed to grow out of, resembled a brotherhood of its own, with Josiah, being the baby, always eager to prove himself.

Although with the terrifying stories of Indian attacks filtering along the telegraph wires, she hoped her father's chance would never come to pass. Ruminating on such things didn't help her peace of mind as she pulled up short and hid against the darkened wall, concerned at the men's unusually tense, hushed exchange, their voices pitched like tents over something secret, protecting it as if even the shadows had ears.

"How many?" she heard her father whisper as the kitchen fire crackled in the background, his tone low and serious.

"Enough to put the Colonel on edge. There have been small skirmishes around the settlements far west of here, but for some reason they seem to be bleeding out this way. I can reluctantly understand the attacks deep in Kansas and further out the trails, but it's been a few years since raids have taken place near Ft. Laramie, Josiah. No one knows what to make of it."

"Orion. I ask you not to get angry with what I'm about to say." After a heavy pause, Josiah posed a cryptic question. "Your brother's band wouldn't do this, would they?"

"No," Orion snapped quickly, but without conviction, "although I wouldn't be so quick to blame them considering what's happened to his people since Diana died."

Diana? Kagome blinked curiously, Who's Diana?

"I know," Josiah sighed deeply, "but you know more than I do that's hardly the popular opinion right now. If we want to have any affect on peace in this area we have to hold our piece till the time is right."

"You don't have to remind me," Orion ran his hand through his dark, peppery hair, "I want to keep all our families safe."

Kagome's heart lurched. What does he mean by that? What's wrong?

"Me too." Josiah leaned over and put a firm hand on his shoulder. "I assure you."

Kagome didn't realize she was trembling until a drop of sizzling hot stew splattered on her hand. Hissing softly, she was just thankful it hadn't flown a few inches more, bleeding all over the sleeve of the beautiful, peony blue dance dress she and her mother had just finished sewing a week before. She shook herself out of her trance and turned the corner, plastering on a bright smile to shield her anxiety over their mysterious conversation. Setting the food down, she welcomed the men's eager thanks and initiated the obligate pleasantries.

"How does your family fare, Mr. Beaudine? Will Henry Jed and Hunter be at the dance?" Orion's son and nephew were a bit older than her, but with the Beaudine lineage it was impossible not to be smitten with their handsomeness and genteel personalities.

Orion's face turned grave. "I assume they're doing as well as could be. Hunter is already riding out with my brother's family to visit our relatives in St. Louis. Henry Jed, my wife and I will be joining them tomorrow morning." He sighed lightly. "My stepmother passed away recently."

"Oh, Mr. Beaudine, I didn't mean –"

He raised a hand, wearing an affectionate smile. "I understand. Your sentiments are appreciated. I was just telling your father here to watch things while I'm gone. He'll be the best scout on hand at Ft. Laramie until I get back."

She turned to her father, intent to agree, but with the grim cast to his eyes the words died in her mouth. He ignored them, staring broodingly into the oil lamp's flickering light until Haruka entered with the fresh corn pones, sweet rolls and steaming hot sweet potatoes. Shaking himself discreetly, he leveled his daughter with the most unsettling look she'd ever seen, his tight smile more resembling a frown with each passing second.

"Be careful tonight, okay Sunshine?" His voice was strangely pinched.

Kagome blushed at his use of her nickname with company present, but gave a confident nod despite the trepidation fluttering in her gut.

It seemed her father didn't want to let the subject drop. "Make sure you drive fast for the cavallard, and stick with them all the way. There's safety in numbers."

"I know, Papa," on impulse she ran over and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm always careful, aren't I?"

A bell rang outside and with a goodbye hug she scurried out to meet it, shrugging off her father's concern and smiling widely for the only female friend she'd ever made. Amy Butler, or Ayame as Kagome liked to call her in appreciation of her mother's beloved iris bouquets, was a shy, sweet redhead who was much prettier than the popular girls would have her believe. She was a spitfire in their youth, but had been slow to develop her charms and the constant teasing took its toll. Now that she was 17 and still small but curvy, she was oblivious to the boys who stared and the girls who scowled. Kagome knew her dear Ayame still thought herself the ugliest girl in town.

"Are you ready to do this?" Ayame asked, her voice somewhat shaky and not just because of the nippy air. Sitting pretty in a pink calico dress and wool coat atop the small covered wagon her family used for local travel, she waited for Kagome to board and then bucked the horses to a trot, adjusting the reins with nervous fingers.

"Nothing could stop me and nothing should stop you. You're an iris, not a wallflower."

"Hmph," she snorted softly, "Tell that to the Bithlow Bitches."

"We don't need to say anything. We'll dance with all the boys tonight and show them."

"Damn straight!" came a rowdy tenor from under a back seat pile of wool blankets that Kagome had naturally assumed were devoid of stowaways. Suddenly the fear she felt at her father's words came charging back with a vengance. Reaching behind her with trembling hands and glowering at Ayame's ambiguous shrug, she snatched up the whole clod of blankets in one fell swoop.

"Holy Jehosephat!" Kagome squealed, "Jackson 'Jakotsu' Shinnick! What the hell do you think you're doing, scaring me to death like that?"

"Sorry, Kagome!" Ayame laughed. "I should've warned you he was comin'."

"Warned her?" Jak pouted. "What am I, some redskin war party?"

"You're some kinda party." Ayame snorted and giggled again, amusing herself immensely. "With you along we know the barn dance won't be boring."

"Like I said, damn straight."

Kagome couldn't help but smile despite herself, calming her nerves with a deep sigh as Ayame and Jakotsu bartered harmless insults with the enthusiasm and verbal dexterity of a pair of 5-year-olds. Straight was not a word Kagome often associated with her friend Jak, although she wasn't sure what else to call his uniqueness, if it even needed a label at all. No matter his preferences, the boy had a good heart and a wicked wit she quickly and absolutely adored. Although his stigma was kept a strict secret between the three of them, he knew what it was like to be the odd man out, so to speak. He'd been shy and somewhat of a loner until Kagome and Ayame came along and befriended him, but with that acceptance came a bond that stood strong against words and actions that were blatantly meant to hurt, those Kagome and sometimes Ayame endured for all to see.

As the wagon ride fell into an easy rhythm, Kagome thought back to the day Jak Shinnick showed up in Ft. Laramie square, and to time beyond that, meandering through the fields of idle memory. Scrawny, pasty, and with his eyes hidden under a wild thatch of black hair, Jak was the last boy Kagome ever expected to catch Ayame's eye. The girl had a thing for tall, dark and handsome, with the one divergence being a weakness for blue eyes, a staple she used as her most vocal excuse for ignoring Capt. Flannery's universal allure, at least where her mother's persistent inquisitiveness was concerned. She simply didn't have the heart to tell her mother the Captain gave her the creeps. She'd tried once, and her 4 sisters jumped all over her, convinced she was touched in the head. So blue eyes were added to her list of future husband requirements, and the more she had to remind her family of this the more she believed it herself. As it turned out, tall, dark and handsome wasn't swooned over nearly as much anymore, but every new blue-eyed soldier sent the redhead's heart fluttering off into the horizon. It prompted she and Kagome to develop a tradition of watching the soldiers train and pull formations on the Ft. Laramie parade grounds, at Ayame's behest, of course, although for a far more personal reason Kagome had acquiesced without a fight.

She'd been just shy of ten years old when the tall, beautiful Indian maiden had walked straight through the heart of town to sit silently and serenely on the little bench adjacent to the Post Trader's store. There were large Indian encampments that came close to Ft. Laramie in those days, at various seasons when it was easier for many Indian women and children to beg outside the fort gates for provisions. Many women, except the girl on that bench.

She had come for hours every day during the months her tribe was in the area to sit and observe, refusing any attempted handouts and rebutting insults with a proud glare. Her back was always straight and her hair brushed to a glassy sheen, its seamless plaits hanging to her waist like a pair of willow branches. Her coal black eyes were always an otherworldly combination of steel, sage confidence and soft intensity. She had so many names whispered amongst the fort locals that Kagome lost count. Little Leaf and Fleet Foot, according to garbled translations of her Lakota Sioux name. The Princess, to credit the most popular, which was modestly apropos since she was the daughter of the powerful Lakota Sioux chief Spotted Tail. Her real name was Mni Akuwin, but Kagome had a special name for her, an affectation that embodied the woman's stoic regality with a completeness no other name could match.

Because to Kagome, she became the very heart of strength, the vision of noblesse, a woman who carried herself with the grace and assurance of an ancient Japanese priestess in a pit of feral demons.

She was the Little Green Child, Midoriko, and she was everything Kagome wanted to be.

In a foreign place that made no qualms about asserting her inferiority, Midoriko sat upon that bench with like a queen upon her throne, and the image impressed itself like her mother's daguerreotypes in Kagome's mind. She'd been raised to be wary of Indians even during peacetime, especially the men, but Midoriko's bravery transcended Kagome's preconceived notions of what an Indian was like, until she completely forgot their differences and recognized her as human and woman, and an admirable example of both. Midoriko never acknowledged the people who openly gawked or sneered. She never felt the need to explain or defend herself. She was fascinated with only one aspect of the white man's world, the soldiers, and from the perfect angle upon that bench, it was the soldiers Midoriko gave her heart to.

Kagome's father told her he'd overheard from Spotted Tail himself that Midoriko had grown so fascinated with the whites she refused to marry anyone but a "captain". To Kagome's utter heartbreak, the young woman had lost any chance of love at the hands of Consumption, and had died with her final wish unfulfilled, to see Ft. Laramie one last time and eventually be buried there, surrounded by her beloved soldiers forever.

Spotted Tail, Josiah had said, holding Kagome close on their porch rocker one balmy spring night as his eyes darkened with sympathy and the cold shadows of dusk, was not just an honorable leader, but a devoted father, and although Midoriko's death crushed him and he knew the trails would be perilous, he promised her spirit and his people that he would follow her wish. He and his band were already on their way to the fort in hopes a white doctor could cure her, but upon her death they made quick work of packing their homes and wares in preparation to continue on, ready to honor their beloved sister. After a hard journey through brittle, sleety gray weather that reflected the sorrow felt throughout every heart, Spotted Tail's procession arrived at Ft. Laramie with Midoriko traditionally wrapped in deerskin and carried on a pall between two white mustangs, her favorite ponies.

Colonel Henry Maynadier, the post commander at the time, had ridden out to welcome the Lakota Sioux chief and offer Midoriko a full military funeral. Josiah had joined the Beaudine brothers behind a small retinue of soldiers accompanying Col. Maynadier, and it was then, as the Colonel comforted Spotted Tail with his sincere intentions to bestow upon Midoriko the utmost respect, he saw tears shine in the great chief's eyes.

"The Great Spirit has taken her," Col. Maynadier soothed him, "and he never did anything except for some good purpose. Everything will be prepared to have her funeral at sunset, and as the sun goes down it might remind you of the darkness left in your lodge when your beloved daughter was taken away, but as the sun will surely rise again, so she will rise, and someday we will all meet in the land of the Great Spirit."

It seemed Spotted Tail wasn't expecting a white soldier to be so compassionate, just as Col. Maynadier was shocked an Indian possessed the ability to cry. For a long while Spotted Tail couldn't speak, but he took the Colonel's hand instead, gripping it until adequate words came to him.

"This must be a dream for me to be surrounded by such as you. Have I been asleep during the last four years of hardship and trial and am dreaming that all is to be well again, or is this real? Yes, I see that it is, the beautiful day, the sky blue, without a cloud, the wind calm and still to suit the errand I come on and remind me that you have offered me peace."

From beneath the burden of pain, a veil of ignorance lifted in that moment, and the two strangers became more than friends, they became men, both with recognizable hearts and innominable hope, both fighting for the right to live.

Even as a child, Kagome could tell something had changed the day of the funeral. Just before sunset, Midoriko's body was processed to a scaffold by a throng of her relatives, a full garrison of soldiers and countless Indians. A crowd of settlers quietly crept up to the outskirts of the funeral, curiosity guiding their steps until their numbers were indistinguishable from those gathered in mourning. No matter the striking silence, she could barely hear the Chaplain's sermon standing with her mother bouncing Souta on her hip on the far hill overlooking the ceremony. Several times Kagome tugged on her mother's skirt, anxious to move closer to her Priestess, but Haruka always hushed her with a quick shake of her head, a finger to her lips and then a reassuring rub of her hair. They were sheltered by a short cluster of trees on that hill, ensconced in breeze-blown shadows, and Kagome had flushed with anger at the realization her mother was hiding.

"Mama," Kagome hissed, tugging again sharply. "We shouldn't hide here. We should be by her."

"She knows you're here, Kagome-chan. Watch," her mother nodded toward the funeral, her voice hushed with wisdom. "This is what Midoriko would want you to see."

According to the Lakota Sioux custom, after the Chaplain's sermon four Indian women covered Midoriko's wrapped body with a thick buffalo robe. Each one lovingly placed within it one of Midoriko's possessions, tucking it close to the girl's still heart. Then, at the silent gasp of the crowd, Col. Maynadier broke from his line and walked alone, guarded by soundless stares, to kneel by Midoriko's body. After a moment of contemplation, he lay a beautiful pair of gauntlets atop the robe, the kind worn to keep a soldier's hands warm during the frigid depths of winter.

There was a subtle crescendo in the Indian women's weeping, and then the Colonel stood up and walked back to his place.

The coffin was closed and covered snugly with a red blanket, then raised upon the scaffold so the Sioux could proceed with their traditional mourning. The crowd contracted, drawing closer together, and many hands, both red and white, clasped together in prayer.

Kagome had seen Indian blankets available for trade when the tribes camped close to the fort, with their intricate patterns of earthen hues, but looking at the tight weave of the crowd she never thought she'd see one so vast. Races bled together upon the loom of that field, their colors softly blending into something Kagome knew she should memorize. White supported red, brown complemented blue, until every thread composed a tapestry of what life was meant to be.

Kagome glanced at her mother to find the same appreciation glistening in small streams down her face. She wasn't hiding them out of fear, she was making sure Kagome saw Midoriko's message for what it was.

"This must be a dream for me to be surrounded by such as you."

It was indeed a dream, one Kagome wondered if she'd ever witness again, and she rubbed her eyes as tears blurred her vision.

In the days that followed, Kagome had begged and begged her father to allow her a small prayer at Midoriko's grave to the point of his first gray hairs, but he relented only when her mother suggested they go as a family. Prayers never hurt, she'd said with a hand brushing Kagome's bangs from her eyes, especially from the kindness of strangers.

A tiny Souta had rolled in the stubbly prairie grass of early spring as Kagome tethered a prayer charm to the tree marking the site of Midoriko's burial. She murmured a blessing in Japanese and then the Lord's Prayer, reciting both phrases painted on the long strip of burlap. She wished so deeply in that moment for some knowledge of Indian words. She wanted Midoriko to understand her when she whispered her admiration. She needed her Little Green Priestess to know that one day Kagome would share her fearlessness to live between two worlds, and love them both equally, no matter the hardships she faced.

As the military families rotated in and out of Ft. Laramie, the memory of Midoriko went with them, and the bench which had stayed vacant for months after her famous funeral grew crowded with ladies gossiping outside the Post Trader's store or children waiting for their parents to finish shopping. It really was the best spot to watch the soldiers marching, and years later when Ayame saw it vacant and claimed it, everyone else avoided it like the plague, not wanting to sully themselves with such associations, unknowingly acting just as others had done with Midoriko.

That was fine with Kagome. She liked to believe Midoriko had saved the bench for them. There was enough space for three, but Kagome and Ayame preferred to spread out their skirts on purpose, marking Midoriko's territory like a monument in her memory.

Kagome had nearly jumped three feet off their bench the day Ayame leaned heavily on her shoulder, her mouth already at her ear and her hand raised to divulge a conspiracy. Based on the redhead's enthusiasm, she'd expected a strapping new dark-haired, blue-eyed recruit to come marching down the line, truly anything other than the skinny boy ambling by distractedly, but for some reason once Ayame saw Jak she couldn't watch anything else.

"Do you see that boy over there, to the left?" she whispered loudly. Kagome winced; Ayame had never seemed to master the art of subtlety.

"Yeah," Kagome shot a glance to the boy dragging his feet in the road, his eyes glued to the rows of men buttoned up in blue. "What about him?"

Ayame shrugged.

"Okay," Kagome drawled, slightly irked, "why'd you point him out if you're not going to tell me anything?"

"I dunno," she shrugged again and scooted closer, "but don't you think it's rather queer he's staring at the soldiers like that?"

"So what? He doesn't look much older than us. Maybe his father's in the military and he just can't wait to follow in his footsteps."

"I dunno," Ayame repeated and started wiggling her feet in the dirt like a cantankerous child, "My Uncle Hank told me stories once, about boys who like other boys –"

"Boys who what?" Kagome's eyes rounded in interest. She'd never heard of such a thing!

"– well, he tried to tell me, but then my grandfather stuffed two biscuits and a corn cob in his mouth. I only heard bits and pieces later that night when both he and my dad made it loud and clear to Uncle Hank he wasn't supposed to bring up things like that at the dinner table." Ayame hunched over and propped her cheek in her hand, looking bored despite her adamant stare at the boy still equally enraptured with the army formations.

Kagome blinked in wonder and added her undivided attention to the mix, noticing for the first time the nearly indecipherable clues placed strategically throughout the boy's dreamy expression. There was a certain sway to his step that reminded her of a preening cat, the way a female would roll around with those throaty meows when she was in heat. Not to mention where his eyes lingered and when they nearly bulged out of their sockets. It wasn't when the weapons were distributed or Capt. Flannery shouted orders. It was expressly during certain positions that emphasized another sort of bulge, a whole slew of them all in a row.

"What more did your uncle say?" Kagome asked offhandedly.

"Aw, something about cowboys alone in the mountains, I forget."

Kagome didn't have a chance to lament her friend's flightiness when the boy turned away from the now departing soldiers with a heavy sigh and caught them staring, three pairs of eyes fastening to each other directly. Ayame's chin slipped out of her palm. Kagome did what she always did when caught; she stopped breathing. For his part, the boy looked equal parts guilty and mortified, his back straight and tense, making his willowy collar bone stick out under his gray linen shirt, and his foot hung suspended in the air, unable to find a safe step down.

Kagome wasn't sure how long they all stayed that way, looking mighty stupid to anyone who bothered to look, but it was long enough for her to imagine one of her father's action packed tall tales unravel itself in her head, complete with a dueling standoff between the wanted bandit and the invincible sheriff, tumbleweeds rolling with haste from out the line of fire and fair damsels cowering under the storefront awnings. It wasn't until she nearly blacked out from lack of air that she realized how silly they were being. This boy hadn't done anything to them; he hadn't done anything wrong. He was acting ashamed for something every girl his age, and some of the much younger boys, did with open adoration. Huffing with anger at herself, she didn't think twice before leaping off the bench and marching straight up to him.

He shuffled back a bit until they stood not two feet from each other. Kagome didn't know she was scowling, her determination a palpable thing inside her although the poor boy wasn't privy to that, when she jutted out her hand for that first welcoming shake, the one that made or broke alliances in their town. Never mind ladies didn't offer to shake hands, not proper ladies anyway.

"Um..." the boy stuttered, his high-pitched voice cracking slightly.

"I'm Kagome," she all but demanded. And don't you forget it, she might as well have said, at least by his reasoning. "Pleased to meet you," came out instead.

The boy forgot his bashfulness for a moment and cleaned out his ear with a pinky. "Eh?"

"I said, pleased to meet you." He couldn't tell if she suddenly realized her severity, but when her face blossomed in the most heartfelt smile he'd seen from a stranger in a long time, the boy was immediately at ease. He released a breath he couldn't remember holding, whistling slightly, and took her hand timidly.

"Jackson Cornelius Shinnick." he smiled. "Pleased to meet you, too."

Ayame took that as permission to bound over, and she nearly smothered them in her unabashed joy at having a new friend. Space was cleared on their private bench, Jak fitting in the middle like that last piece to a puzzle, and their tradition of watching the soldiers continued without further incident. Kagome couldn't help but roll her eyes when Jak and Ayame would sigh together, on cue it seemed. She was glad they'd each found someone else to share details of how well tailored Lt. Hardwick's jacket looked on Monday, or how clean, crisp and tight Private Jensen's pants looked on Thursday. Kagome had never been one to swoon at every opportunity, but that didn't mean she didn't love indulging her two best friends.

Clouds tossed around the last rays of sunset as Kagome came back to the present, and the tiny wagon moved steadily along, bouncing smoothly over the pockmarked ground strewn with miniature mountains and caves that probably used to be prairie dog burrows or last summer's buffalo and antelope tracks. Ayame slowed her pace for a brief moment when they saw the cavallard bound for the barn dance off in the distance, but with a quick snap to the reins and a bark to the horses, she sat up a little straighter in her seat and forged ahead. Kagome and Jak shared a proud grin.

It had grown marginally darker by the time they reached the others, and unfortunately it was Martha's wagon they pulled up to first, seeking entrance in the line. Hojo had solid control of the reins, but he blanched when he turned to his left to find Kagome leveling him with a hard glare.

"Um," he stammered, and his pallid face nearly burst with a guilty blush, "Huh-hi, Kah-Kagome. What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." She was quite aware of the edge in her voice, and how Martha probably interpreted it considering her smug smile and the hand that found its way to Hojo's knee. He jerked at the touch, but then Kagome slightly, if not regrettably, enjoyed watching him squirm. She knew her feigned anger was probably not the nicest game to play, but she figured it was harmless enough and might divert his casual courtship to a girl less controlling than she made herself out to be. But then he was with Martha, and wasn't that a ball and chain waiting to happen? Ah well, Hojo always was a little dense.

"He's where he wants to be, obviously," Martha cooed. She waved her hands like swatting a pest. "Why don't you three carnies put on a circus by yourselves and leave the dance to the people who matter?"

"But with you at the dance tonight, who'd we'd get to perform as the fat lady?" Jak poked his head out between Kagome and Ayame, beaming a guileless grin.

"Or-or the bearded lady?!" Ayame tried hard to attach herself to Jak's incendiary mirth, and actually succeeded for once. Kagome patted her shoulder, impressed.

"Oh, you," Martha fumed and Hojo chuckled nervously, but no one paid him any attention, "Just go home, would you?"

"Not a chance," Kagome shot back. "Pick up the pace Howard, we're comin' through."

Against Martha's demands to the contrary, Hojo sped up enough for Ayame to make an easy transition into the cavallard. Once at a steady cantor, the three of them burst with raucous laughter. It was worth coming just for the look on Martha Bithlow's face, and the dance hadn't even started yet.

Although the sun had completely set as they paralleled their path to the North Platte River, its goodbye was grand in the wide prairie sky, a broad, squat swath of reds and golds that took Kagome's breath away. It mingled with the pale light of the rising full moon and lit the very tops of the woods' short trees on fire, catching the wings of a few songbirds that flew between the branches readying their nests to bed down for the night.

Then something caught her eye along the tree line. It was a quick movement, easily dismissed if it wasn't for the thin thread of bright silver than followed in the shadow's wake. Kagome wasn't sure why her heart started to pound and her fingers started to tingle. As she scanned the forest's edge on high alert, she wasn't aware she'd stopped breathing.

There, her stomach lurched, in the brush.

Her eyes darted, widened. The curls dangling from her upswept hair flipped, catching the luminous twilight as she snapped her attention to the right.

Again, behind a tree.

Her heart unhitched the wagon's horse and mounted it, galloping hard out of the open, vulnerable field, its frantic pace thundering in her ears. She gasped deeply, her breath quickened on its heels. She felt like a deer surrounded by wolves.

Another flash of light. A raised rifle.

A raised rifle.

Rifle...

"Rifle!" She yelled, and Ayame jerked hard on the reins, careening away from the wagon train. A few shiny red curls slipped from her intricate bun as she struggled to regain control, shooting Kagome a perplexed frown.

"Kagome, what the hell?" Jak grumbled as he pulled himself up from a tangled pile in the wagon cart.

"There!" Kagome shouted again, pointing frantically to the forest, "Ayame, there's people in the woods with rifles! We have to turn around NOW!"

Ayame blanched and froze. "Whu-what?"

Their shouting caused a ripple of consternation through the wagon train. Martha spun around with a sour look. "Would you shut up, already?"

As Kagome turned to warn her, the world ground to a halt. She watched her hand raise in slow warning, her voice swept away with the moment. What happened next, she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy.

Ten braves, four on horseback and six on foot, ripped from the woods like a thunderstorm, their horses' hooves pounding the earth flat. A pack of arrows and a spray of bullets split the quiet night, their pointed teeth mauling wood and skin. Through wagons up and down the line, people howled in pain and panic.

"Indians!" a man yelled up near the front.

Thank you, Captain Obvious, trumpeted through Kagome's head as more arrows whistled between their wagon and Martha's. The crack-whip sound spooked their horse and it reared on its hind legs, thrashing and whinnying in terror before charging full tilt at an awkward run. The small wagon couldn't keep up. Kagome, Ayame and Jak barely kept a solid hold inside the cart as it crashed over the rugged terrain, and after the yoke could no longer bear the pressure it split like an axe through firewood, twisting the wagon on its side and shattering the front axle and left wagon wheels.

Kagome was vaguely aware of when her body took flight and the wagon disappeared from her fingers, her grip not as secure as she'd hoped. She dimly registered the sharp pain of contact with the unforgiving ground, hissing under a wash of tears when nerves on her side burst into flames.

Ayame wasn't feeling much better. She groaned and palmed the back of her head, blinking through dust and disorientation to see Jak scrambling after the horse. She couldn't tell exactly, but it looked like the broken yoke had pitched itself like a tent pole in the ground, trapping the horse although he struggled fiercely. That was some luck the old stallion was still there, no less that he hadn't been shot. She shook her head and made ready to join him when she noticed Kagome still lying limp on the grass several yards away, moaning. Ayame's stomach dropped when she saw the damaged wheel by Kagome's foot, counting several spokes sticking out like broken bones, one jagged stub covered in blood.

"Oh no...Kagome!" Ayame broke for the cover of the wagon, shrieking as an arrow embedded itself in her shadow.

Kagome could feel the adrenaline surging through her system like a caged beast. It was all so surreal, the warriors circling like vultures and the partygoers running in every direction. She stood on shaking legs and clutched her side, feeling the frayed material move through her fingers, its damage irreparable. "You made me rip my dress!" She clenched her teeth, her chest heaving. All of Mama's work... Dammit, this was supposed to be a happy night! For Jak, for Ayame...

Wait a minute...Jak! She blinked. Ayame!

She might as well have been punched, because it finally registered that the chaotic cyclone she stood in the middle of was no dream. Her friends were in danger. Frantic, she swung around calling for them.

"Jak! Ayame! Where are you?" She felt a firm tug on the back of her skirt and dropped to her knees to find Ayame crouched behind the lopsided wagon.

"Kagome! Get down!" Ayame pleaded with tears tilling the dirt on her cheeks. "Jak's unhitching the horse."

"What?" Kagome surged up to aid him but Ayame held her fast. "We have to help. He could get killed!"

"No! You know he can saddle up faster than we can!" Three more arrows thumped in the side of the wagon and a bullet whizzed over their heads, grinding the edge of the wagon cart to corn meal and blasting it in their hair. They screamed bloody murder.

"We've got to do something," Kagome wheezed, "Doesn't your father keep a rifle in this thing?"

"Yeah, in the back, but it probably fell out!" Ayame started to panic.

"Hold tight, girl!" Kagome gripped her shoulders and shook her firmly. "We'll get through this. Just you wait!" With a nod, Ayame composed herself and Kagome leapt up to search for the gun. Suddenly the world wheeled wildly out of control and she dug her heels in the dirt to gain purchase, steadying herself against the wagon. She blinked rapidly and slumped against the cracked axle, Ayame crawling to her side.

"Kagome?" she screamed in a raspy whisper, "You okay?"

"Don't worry about me," Kagome forced her focus above another wave of dizziness, woozy and nauseous. Breathe, girl, breathe dammit! "I'm not going down that easily!"

Spotting the rifle Ayame's father always kept in the wagon cart hidden in grass under the wheel, she lunged for it, cursing herself silly in the process. Keep breathing, you dunderhead! You can't faint at a time like this!

"Kagome –" Ayame whined and squealed when Kagome cocked the gun and popped a shot at a brave on foot, bracing her body against the wagon chassis for cover. Her mouth fell open in surprise when she got him square in the chest.

"Wow," she mumbled. "Lucky shot."

"Kagome!" Ayame shrieked again. Turning sharply at the sound, Kagome followed her friend's finger as it pointed to another brave on horseback. She wasn't close enough to see the rage blazing in his eyes, but she visibly shivered at the wild snarl curling through his war cry as he spurred his maple brown mustang in their direction.

Her vision swayed and time plodded again as he charged, moving like a rock through a swamp. Distantly she heard her name being called over whoops and screams, and she turned to see Jak pull Ayame by the collar atop her wagon's horse, its legs fumbling in fear without the yoke's restraint.

"Kagome!" Jak yelled, his voice sounding strangely like pulled sorghum candy, fluid, buttery and deep. What a time to hit puberty, Jak, she thought as she stumbled back from the safety of the wagon's chassis, chuckling to herself as her vision skewed again. She wasn't sure why that was funny, just as she wasn't sure why her veins felt like they were filled with hot molasses.

"Kagome!" he bellowed again. "Get. On. The. Horse!"

Suddenly, irrationally, a sharp, gleaming clarity parted the curtains of Kagome's awareness. Many of her neighbors lay dead, or they'd already ridden at full speed for the far safety of the fort. With the brave on horseback bearing down upon them, there was no way she'd get on Ayame's horse in time, and hefting three people the smaller pack animal would never outrun the brave's war-bred stallion.

She just couldn't make it, but maybe with better odds, her friends would. She shook off her delirium and made her choice without a second thought.

"No time!" She smacked the horse on its rear and shook uninhibitedly as it bolted for the reinforcements, her name a litany on the wind, Ayame screaming a path to safety. She sighed in relief as they faded into the distance unharmed, until the brashness of her actions knocked the wind clean out of her lungs.

What the hell did I just do? I'm doomed!

She glanced up to see the brave on horseback knocking an arrow aimed straight for her heart, his build solid and horrifying, looking for all the world like the mighty beasts and gods from her mother's stories. She pulled her buffalo pelt tight around her as it was her only shield, and she fervently prayed it was as magic as it felt, including the ability to deflect arrows. The emptied wagons and other braves on horseback created an impenetrable barrier between her and the few local cowboys charging over the low brow of the hill to help them. Behind her, the only safety lay in the same place from where the danger had emerged, the forest. At least it was a chance to lose them.

As Kagome kicked up dust, she was painfully aware it was probably one of the worst decisions she'd ever made, but since she had no other choice she ran for all her might for the thick cover of trees, shrouding her face with the buffalo hide because what good would it possibly do her to watch the arrow with her name on it fly home? If she was going to die, she'd rather it be quick than dread those last few moments, watching death approach helplessly.

Too bad she didn't see the brave lower his bow and draw his horse to an abrupt stop, his face blanketed in shock. Blinking, he shouted and motioned two braves on foot to follow her into the woods, with specific instructions to capture her alive.

-----

These verdant, rolling plains were monitored by the U.S. government, and yet he found the Lakota war party skulking around the paltry wagon train like they had every right to tear it apart. He'd left his village for a weeklong hunt - nothing serious, more to commune with his western lands in a rare, peaceful moment of solitude - when he'd heard the masculine shouts and feminine screams echoing through the patchy woods that camped along the North Platte River. Without a second thought he darted through the trees to catch sight of the commotion, curious and slightly offended this small band of his tribe's Lakota allies dared to make a ruckus where it wasn't warranted. Eyeing the tumult across the sloping field, he wasn't surprised the attackers were so young.

Idiots. This is no way to fight a war.

Almost two years ago he'd gone with his father, the well-known and well-respected chief of his Northern Cheyenne village, Grey Eagle, to join the many Lakota present at Ft. Laramie for the signing of a new peace treaty. Under the fervent ambition of the famous Lakota chief Red Cloud, a bloody war had been fought with the U.S. military over white encroachment in their territory surrounding the Powder River Valley near Yellowstone. Red Cloud's pursuit was relentless and ruthless, but ultimately victorious. The treaty secured their rights to that land and the Black Hills, protecting its sacred sites and hunting grounds rich in prized game like the buffalo, but game was becoming more scarce as more whites settled in tribal lands and the U.S. government did little to stop it. Skirmishes such as the one ahead of him still happened when local bands felt the treaty wasn't enough to survive on. Whites didn't seem to understand or care that the flow of the herds marked the difference between life and death for his people and all the plains tribes, so much that they held the animal to be a messenger of the Great Spirit. The buffalo meant everything to a man of the plains.

He knew this better than anyone.

Gunfire crackled through the quiet dusk, and he tensed on his haunches in preparation for a fight. With hollers from a gaggle of white reinforcements racing in from the distance, things had just gotten a lot more serious. There was no going back from a sound like that. Looking around, he noticed a few half-clothed bodies gleamed in haunting stillness under the rising moon, dead and painted pale because of it. He held no sympathy for the results of such youthful brashness. Dead is what you get without a plan.

The whites from the wagon train scattered across the meadow, most running toward the reinforcements with others trapped by the remaining warriors on the opposite side. One breeched the woods and ran toward him in zigzags with two Lakota close behind. That's a woman, he realized. Even under billowing layers of muslin and eyelet lace he discerned her dainty curves and knew she was built more brittle than a bird. She could run like a jackrabbit, though. She flew like his father's proud eagle on those tiny bird feet.

Further and further the warriors drew her away from the safety of her group, until she pivoted left and made a beeline for his position. He shuffled through the underbrush to monitor her progress and debated if he should assist her escape. This area wasn't contended like the fertile land up north and west, and with the fort so close retaliation from the commanders in Washington would be swift. Any female casualties from this suicide mission - for that's surely all this haphazard attack could possibly wind up being - could damn the nearby bands with massacres worse than they'd endured in the past. He understood as much as the next warrior the need to fight, but with such a thoughtless attack, what were they fighting for?

Closer and closer she came until he could hear her keening breath, when almost right in front of where he crouched behind a thicket she stumbled on a root and fell flat on her face with a yelp. He didn't know whether to grimace or chuckle. He certainly didn't expect his opening would come so easily.

What a sight you are, white girl. He snorted to himself. Graceful in flight but clumsy when landing.

The young Lakota skidded to a stop and nearly tumbled over each other as they gaped at her, not uttering a sound. They hopped and fidgeted from side to side, checking her from various angles, appearing more like prey scanning their surroundings for danger than triumphant warriors come to claim their prize. Taking his cue, he emerged seamlessly from the shadows and stepped between the Lakota and their target, staking his own claim with his silent but fearsome presence.

Making sure they felt the full brunt of his icy stare, he addressed them tersely in their Siouan language, "You chase this woman, but don't attack her when she falls at your feet. Why not?"

Eyes wide with fright, they waved their hands in frantic gestures. "Pale Cheyenne, are you dense or something? Look at her! It's White Buffalo Calf Woman, come to condemn us for this battle! We have to beg her forgiveness!"

They thought this awkward girl was an embodiment of the Lakota's most sacred spiritual messenger? He was thoroughly unconvinced and more than a little perturbed at their utter lack of respect and common sense. "So you chase her through the woods at night? No wonder she's afraid of you. She probably thinks you're going to kill her like you killed the other whites. Congratulations on a successful peace talk, fools."

Aghast at their own stupidity, the two warriors, who didn't look any older than his 15 year old brother now that he was close enough to examine them, flailed around and wailed in mourning, ranting nonsequitor remarks about how their village was doomed. He grunted lowly, in perfect agreement but exasperated at having to deal with such children, when he heard the woman's sharp intake of breath and her scuttling back through the crunch of autumn leaves. He'd never really taken a good look at her. While the "warriors" sobbed, this was as good a chance as any to see exactly for himself how important this woman was.

Turning slowly so as not to scare her further - too late - his eyes widened of their own volition.

Perhaps they weren't exaggerating.

Sprawled on the ground with all the grace of a prairie dog, the white woman gaped at him with the most unusually beautiful blend of features, her mountain cat eyes bluer than twilight and wider than an owl's. The moon picked a bouquet of cool, snowy hues from her dress, but he could tell in the subtle shadows that the material would be that same color and softness even in the afternoon sun. Ink black hair painted a stark silhouette around the pale smoothness of her skin, the contrast so vivid it hurt to focus on one spot for too long, but even all that sweet femininity wasn't enough to drop his breath like a stone in mud. It was what she clutched around her shoulders, what gleamed so brightly and made that hair and those eyes sparkle like ribbed agate, what she huddled in so deeply she almost disappeared...

This strange white girl wore a sacred white buffalo pelt over her body. Holy shit.

One of those had gone missing six years back during a U.S. Military raid on a Southern Cheyenne band encamped near Sand Creek, in the territories far east of his home. When the survivors had made the long trek into his band's territory, they recounted the horrors they'd seen, and the sacred objects that were lost or pilfered, only to be sold as novelties to the white immigrants passing through their land. His friends and family had lost many relatives to that gruesome massacre, and while it burned his heart black with pain and rage, he wasn't nearly of age to join them in their unanimous warcry against the whites, attacking expeditions and outposts in revenge. His own mixed heritage left him conflicted enough, because he recognized the anguished hesitation on his father's face, and he knew, if just for his father's sake, he shouldn't dishonor the memory of his white mother with such blind vengeance.

Considering the trading routes and the recent rise of interest in buffalo hides, it was thoroughly possible she cowered in the exact pelt his tribe had lost. If he could bring it back to his village, he could rekindle his people's hope by ushering in the redemption promised by the sacred white buffalo and fulfill the prophecy of his birth.

Time to count the coup, He thought proudly. Rearing up to his full height, he made his decision with an sharp whoop, startling the Lakota boys so fiercely he was upon them before they could whimper. Two quick blows landed them both unconscious. They would have one hell of a time finding their way back home seeing every trail in triplicate, but they'd surely never forget this night, just as surely as they'd never forget who put them in that position. Cracking his knuckles with a self-congratulatory smirk, he turned to fetch the pelt from the silent woman.

And blinked in agitation when she promptly fainted.

Suppressing an irritated sigh, he moved purposefully on padded moccasins, gliding with ease over twigs and dead leaves to study her. He'd seen trees fall over with more finesse, but what this girl lacked in poise she certainly made up for in beauty. Kneeling at her side, he was overcome with how strange she looked, weaving hints of every race he'd ever seen: the whites, the Chinese, even soft allusions to the look of his people. The design was so delicate he felt privileged just to sit at her feet. It was a struggle not to reach out and touch her with the reverence the unconscious Lakota thought she deserved.

As his hand hovered mere inches from her cheek, she moaned weakly and tossed her head. It wasn't a healthy sound, and certainly not accepting of his touch. He flinched and recoiled when she moaned again, throatier that time, with sweat beading on her brow and a grimace showing straight, white teeth.

Studying her body for injuries, the sight he found stopped him cold. A large swatch of muslin hung damp and limp just above the gathering at her waist, ripped open around an unsightly gash bleeding freely through the material. He felt a little chagrined for judging her so harshly now, considering for her to run so far and for so long with such an injury bespoke a strong, determined will. This was not the waspish, frail white woman of his brother's crude jokes and the elders' prejudice. This one was a fighter.

He growled lowly, realizing in that instant he couldn't leave her there to die, but he was torn on the best way to make sure of her recovery. If he returned her to her people, would he be arrested for tonight's attack? There were some settlers living near the fort who would corroborate his story, but he wasn't sure the military would allot him the privilege to plead his case. He remembered hearing tales of two chiefs who had returned a white woman captive only to be executed, their bodies dangling by chains for months on end as a grisly warning. Should he risk taking her to his village? Her disappearance could alert the white soldiers, but he knew reliable scouts who could escort her home privately and discreetly, and make sure everything was calmly resolved.

With an errant thought, he wondered if his father had asked himself the same questions when forced to make a similar choice. He shook his head to clear it and affirmed that the reasons behind his heritage were obsolete. He was the living answer, as where the stories of how his white mother had endeared herself amongst his village, as was the love that clouded his father's eyes when he presided over the festival fires and traveled back in time to a utopian life his eldest son was too young to remember.

He knew, just by that chasm of hatred that separated his people from the whites and how borders dividing them shrunk every day, that his mother and father had never set out to fall in love. It was not rebellion that kindled their closeness, but compassion. He sighed and frowned. Compassion was something he was not normally good at. It was a trait nearly impossible to cultivate when living as an oddity amongst his own race, segregated as a sign from the Great Spirit and treated with a fluctuating mix of respect and fear, but also demonized by an entire nation that desired his culture's complete subjugation. Regardless, he refused to victimize himself when his father had stressed the importance of a determined, discerning heart and mind in every lesson he taught. He would fight when he deemed fit, with pride, skill and perfect control. No matter his struggle with compassion, he was well versed and naturally fluent in the virtue of Cheyenne honor.

Glancing back at the girl, he decided that's how he would take the situation. As a healthy, able man, it was his responsibility to help an injured woman, and his duty to do what was in the best interest of his people, despite them most likely seeing her presence in their village as a threat and questioning his allegiance, misunderstanding his choice. Steeling himself, he couldn't trouble himself with portents of their strife. This woman needed him, and glancing again at the buffalo hide that engulfed her tiny body, as much as he was loathe to admit it, he needed her.

His father would understand, and that was all that mattered.

Using a tenderness he was glad no one was lucid enough to witness, he folded the small woman into his arms and carried her through the thick woods, tracking a ribbon of moonlight to the pinto horse he'd left tied to a tree, already feeling the harsh repercussions of his decision but holding his head high anyway.

-----

THANK YOU to my FF.net readers: Hajnalmadar, WolvenTemptress, madmiko, and Reesiepup
And my Dokuga.com readers: enmaren, A.M, hasu86, Libertines, sesshys_jaded_samuri, Izby, and ur name

Your reviews mean the world to me, even if it takes me forever to say so and post the next chapter!! Each one brings a huge smile to my face and a profound feeling of gratitude. Bless you and your awesomeness!!!

Otherwise, good LORD, this chapter was a pain!!! I'm trying very hard to conform my fiction to history, but I tell you, there are a lot of conflicting accounts of events during this time period. *O_o* The more I get into it, the more discrepancies I have to fix and I'm tellin' you, some stuff may be wrong but I'm just going to have to suck it up and move on. I'm so anal retentive about it, that's going to be a challenge.

Also, the more I read this chapter, the more I realize Inuyasha may have been a better physical fit with the mixed heritage, but I just couldn't commit such heresy against my OTP!! Besides, how else am I gonna explain Sess being all silvery and pale as a Cheyenne man? I mean, c'mon...besides, his parents are already predetermined from the "Grey Eagle's Bride" novel, so my hands are tied.

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This may be the longest mini-encyclopedia in recorded history:

Mni Akuwin was a real person, and so were the circumstances of her funeral. Some parts of this story just write themselves, I swear. The quotes from Col. Maynadier and Spotted Tail are real, too.

Northern Cheyenne / Southern Cheyenne is one nation split between two distinct geographical areas (and eventually, reservations), with the NC in Wyoming, northern Colorado, South Dakota and Montana during this time period and the SC in southern Colorado, Nebraska and Kansas. Sesshypoo is Northern Cheyenne.

White Buffalo Calf Woman is a sacred messenger to the Lakota. Instead of me completely bastardizing this beautiful tradition, please Google it for yourself.

White Buffalo are sacred to all Plains tribes for various reasons. The Lakota associate it with White Buffalo Calf Woman, while the Cheyenne have a beautiful story about a great flood (interestingly similar to one in the Bible) where the pelt of a white buffalo bull was used to shelter the remaining people, animals and vegetation in the Yellowstone Valley of northwestern Wyoming after a world-wide flood destroyed whole populations. It is seen as a gift of the Great Spirit and its hide was often used by medicine men to cure illness.?

Counting the Coup is a American Indian battle practice used by the Plains tribes which involved touching an enemy warrior and then running away unharmed. It was considered a supreme act of bravery. Needless to say I take some liberties having "Sess" knock them out cold, but he did it to stall for time, so I forgive him.

The Sand Creek Massacre occurred on November 29, 1864, when U.S. Militia in the Colorado territory destroyed and looted a village of Southern Cheyenne and Arapaho encamped along Sand Creek, killing 150-200 men, women and children and decimating the Cheyenne political and clan system. The attack killed 8 of the chiefs who sat on the Cheyenne Council of 44, many of whom had promoted peace with the whites. It was a decisive event instigating nearly a decade of bloody battles between U.S. soldiers and various Plains tribes.

The Chinese Well, c'mon people, I don't need to explain who they are, do I? I mean, anyone watch the Olympics? But did you know there really were Chinese immigrants working in the West at this point in history? In fact, a lot of the railroads wouldn't have been built if it wasn't for Chinese laborers, but sadly, like every group that wasn't good ole' Whitey back in the day (I can say that since I'm about as Anglo-Saxon as one can get), they were discriminated against.

The Ft. Laramie Treaty of 1868 was an agreement between the United States and the Lakota Sioux, putting an end to a war between the Lakota and the U.S. military over the Powder River Country in northwestern Wyoming. It ensured protection of Lakota sacred sites and hunting grounds. It brought about a time of relative peace compared to earlier in the decade, that is until the Black Hills gold rush of 1875 sparked vast migrations right through Lakota reservation territory. Minor skirmishes still occurred in between the treaty and the gold rush, although less frequently.

Chiefs Two Face and Black Foot were two Lakota chiefs who brought white captive Mrs. Eubank and her baby to Fort Laramie to turn them over to the Army. Mrs. Eubank had been taken captive during a raid by the Cheyenne on the Little Blue River. Apparently the chiefs had bought Mrs. Eubank's freedom to gain the favor of the whites. Instead, they received death. Despite protests from several individuals, the very incompetent Colonel Thomas Moonlight had the chiefs hung with chains and left their bodies hanging for months as an example to other chiefs. Of course Moonlight's action brought further hostilities to the area.