The ground began to shake before he heard them.

At first, Elias thought it was just Rye skittering at some unseen shadow — the gelding’s ears flattening, head tossing, hooves nervous on the shortgrass. But then the tremor deepened, rolling through the soles of his boots, and his own stomach tightened with a quiet, primal fear.

He reined up on the rise and turned in his saddle.

The horizon behind him had gone dark.

It came like a stormcloud — but moving faster, lower, with the sound of the world splitting open beneath it. Dust roiled into the pale afternoon sky, blotting out the sun, and the black shapes within it surged forward in a mad, unbroken wave.

Bison.

A full herd, running flat‑out and blind with terror, pouring over the prairie like floodwater. A stampede.

Elias didn’t wait to count or wonder why. He wheeled Rye around and dug in his heels. The gelding leapt forward, ears pinned, eyes rolling white. Elias kept low in the saddle, already scanning the plain ahead. There was nothing but grass and earth for miles — nothing that could stop them.

And nothing that could save him.

The herd was closing.

Behind him, the low thunder built to a roar, hoofbeats merging into one deafening rhythm. Dust clawed at his throat, coated his lips, stung his eyes. The smell of musk and panic hit him next — hot and choking, carried on the rising wind.

“God help me,” he whispered under his breath and urged Rye harder. The gelding answered, foam flecking at the corners of his mouth, but he wasn’t a buffalo, and Elias could feel the herd gaining.

Then — there.

Off to his left, just visible through the haze: an outcropping of sandstone, ragged and sun‑scorched, jutting from the plain like a shipwreck. It was a long shot — too far, maybe — but it was his only hope.

He angled toward it and didn’t look back.

The herd’s front line was already flanking him, bison bodies black and massive, eyes wide and blind with fear. Their breath rose in clouds, their bellows drowned in the fury of their charge. One veered dangerously close — so close Elias could smell the rank fur, hear the grind of hooves — and then another, closer still.

That was when he saw it.

A bull.

Not just part of the herd — this one was cutting across, aiming right for him, head low, horns glinting white through the dust. If it got ahead of him, he’d be finished — trampled or gored, either way dead on the plain.

Elias jerked his rifle from the scabbard.

Rye’s hooves slipped in the loose dirt but found purchase again. The bull bore down, nostrils flaring, eyes wild.

He slowed his breath as he exhaled. Timing his shot with the rise and fall of the horse beneath him, he squeezed the trigger.

The shot cracked through the roar, and the bull stumbled, front legs collapsing as blood darkened its hide. It pitched forward into the grass, skidding hard enough to churn up earth, and Elias and Rye shot past it in a blur.

The outcropping was closer now — still too far, but he didn’t dare stop. He kept Rye pointed at the rocks, one hand still clutching the hot rifle, the other white‑knuckled on the reins.

The first of the bison were already sweeping past as he reached the base.

Rye scrambled, hooves slipping and catching, and Elias kicked hard, yelling the horse on. Dust filled his lungs, and for a moment the sky itself seemed to disappear, swallowed in brown haze and black bodies. Then they crested the rocks, stones clattering loose beneath them, and they were clear.

From his perch he watched the herd thunder by, river‑wide and endless, a living tide of hide and horn and muscle.

It felt like a long time before the last stragglers passed — cows bawling, calves keeping close, a few bulls at the rear.

That’s when he saw them.

Riders.

Four of them, emerging through the trailing dust. They came at an easy pace, silent but for the faint creak of leather. Spears, bows, and rifles glinted. Faces painted, hair braided, bodies lean and straight riding their ponies bareback. 

Lakota.

They rode in the wake of the herd like spirits, unhurried and watchful, following the trail cut by the stampede they’d set in motion.

Elias stayed still, crouched low in the rocks, eyes narrowed as he watched them pass below.

The land was alive with thunder yet, and his heart hadn’t slowed.

And in that moment, as the dust settled and the hunters passed, he realized just how far from home he truly was.

—•—

The herd was a distant rumble now, dust still hanging in the sky like smoke. Elias stayed where he was in the rocks, rifle laid across his lap, letting Rye catch his breath beneath him.

He watched the riders as they came on.

They’d turned off from the wake of the stampede, their ponies angling toward the dark shape of the fallen bull below. Four of them, lean and watchful. Most likely a scouting party outriding for a larger group. Even at this distance he could see the flash of painted faces, the glint of metal in the sun.

They circled the carcass at first, one dismounting to touch the hide and study the wound. Then the lead rider — an older man with a hawk feather tied into his braid — raised his eyes to Elias’s perch.

The others followed his gaze.

For a long moment they just sat there, watching him. No shouting, no rush. Just steady eyes and quiet judgment.

Elias didn’t move. He kept the rifle across his knees, his other hand loose on the reins. He knew better than to bolt — and better still than to point his weapon their way. Instead, he gave the lead rider a single, slow nod.

That seemed to be enough.

The old man barked something low to the others, then kicked his pony into motion. They rode toward the rocks at an easy lope, dust rising around them. When they reached the base, they stopped, and the old man alone climbed higher, his moccasins whispering over stone.

Elias stayed seated as the Lakota man approached, rising only when he was a few paces away. He kept his rifle low, more walking stick than threat.

The man stopped and studied him — not just his face, but the way he carried himself, the rifle, the worn boots, the horse behind him.

Then he raised one hand, palm out.

Elias matched the gesture.

The old man nodded, then pointed back to the bull and made a slicing motion across his own ribs. He tapped his chest, then swept his hand outward, fingers spread. Meat.

Elias understood.

He glanced down at the bull, black hide glistening where it lay half‑buried in dust. One animal wouldn’t feed a tribe for long — but it would help. And he could cut enough from the carcass to see him through three, maybe four days if he was careful.

He looked back at the old man, then tapped his own chest. “Mine,” he said — quiet, but firm. He drew his hand down over his ribs, then raised three fingers and pointed at himself.

You can have the rest.

The Lakota’s dark eyes softened just enough to catch the change. He dipped his head once in thanks, then made a quick, sharp motion to the others below.

They moved fast after that — three of them working with long knives to strip hide and quarter the carcass. Elias dismounted and walked down to claim his share: a shoulder, a haunch, and a fat strip of tallow to render later.

He worked without saying much. They did too. Every so often one of the younger men shot him a glance — not quite a smile, but something close. Respect, maybe.

When his portion was wrapped in hide and tied to Rye’s saddle, Elias stepped back and gave the rest to them with a small wave of his hand. The old man answered with a faint grunt of approval.

As they worked, the old man crouched beside him for a moment, using the edge of his knife to draw in the dust — a winding line with marks spaced along it, then a circle. He pointed back the way they’d come, then to himself, then to the line.

Elias followed his meaning well enough: they were scouts for a larger camp, traveling behind the herd. Families, lodges, fire.

The man traced three parallel lines next — three days. Then he straightened and met Elias’s eye.

Three days back, a village is coming.

Elias gave a short nod, then held the old man’s gaze a moment longer before saying softly, “Good hunting.”

The old man didn’t answer, but he reached down, took a pinch of dust, and let it fall through his fingers before turning away.

When they were finished, they mounted their ponies again, bundles of meat and hide slung across their mounts. One of the younger men rode past Elias and touched two fingers to his brow before falling back into line.

And then they were gone, slipping into the haze like spirits, as quietly as they’d come.

Elias stood alone on the rocks for a while longer, watching the last of the dust settle.

The plain stretched out before him — empty again, save for the dark smear where the bull had fallen.

He swung back into the saddle, feeling the weight of his modest take behind him and the faint warmth of the old man’s gaze still on him.

He’d made no enemies today. Maybe even a friend.

—•—

The sun was well past its peak by the time Elias left the rocks behind and swung Rye back onto the open plain.

The land stretched wide and empty ahead of him, all rolling grass and low ridges, with the faint blue of the Laramie Mountains rising to the west like a distant promise. The air was still heavy with dust from the herd, but already the wind was working on it, carrying the smell of trampled earth and bison musk away.

He kept an easy pace, letting Rye pick his footing in the shortgrass, the weight of his modest share of meat balanced behind the saddle.

It was good riding country, he thought. Wide enough to see what was coming, soft enough to make good time, full of little gullies and dry washes that gave up water if you knew where to look. A man could learn a lot just by keeping his eyes open out here — which way the grass lay in the wind, where the cottonwoods thickened near a hidden spring, how to tell the difference between a shadow and a rattler in the path.

He’d been learning since the day he left home.

At first, it hadn’t been this kind of country at all. After leaving the family farm and crossing the Elk River, he’d followed the wagon ruts west through Tennessee, then Missouri, then farther still. He’d taken what work he could find: a few months on a steamboat plying the Mississippi, his hands raw from the ropes and his ears full of the whistle’s cry; then cutting timber in the pinewoods of Arkansas, swinging an axe from dawn to dusk until his back screamed and his shoulders hardened.

Both jobs paid. Both were honest. But neither of them quieted that thing in him — the part that woke him in the night wondering what lay beyond the next ridge.

It was trapping and hunting that finally felt right.

Not because it was easy — it wasn’t. Not because it paid well — it didn’t. But because it put a man face‑to‑face with the land and left no room for lies. Out here, a man either learned to read the world around him or he didn’t come back. He liked that kind of reckoning.

The first year he trapped the Ozarks and Ouachitas, moving from one camp to another with a loose string of other hopefuls. He caught enough mink and muskrat to keep himself fed and in powder, sold his take at a trader’s post, and pressed on.

The second year took him into Kansas and up toward the Platte, deeper into buffalo country. That was where he started to learn what real winter felt like — how the prairie winds could cut through every layer you owned, how a man’s fingers turned useless if he didn’t keep them moving, how fire and water and shelter became more precious than gold.

Now, three years on, he’d left the loose company of other trappers behind and gone farther north, chasing beaver and adventure into places few whites dared linger. He’d seen country so beautiful it hurt to look at — river valleys thick with cottonwood and willow, snow‑capped peaks that caught the sunrise like flame. He’d seen other things too: dead men face‑down in the snow, horses gutted and left where they fell, winter camps that never woke up come spring.

And yet… here he was.

He tipped his hat back and let the breeze wash over his face, the taste of dust and sun and bison still heavy on his tongue.

The hunger for it — the wind on his face, the taste of danger and quiet victories — hadn’t left him yet. If anything, it had grown sharper.

Ahead, the land began to rise a little, breaking into low ridges and scattered buttes. Somewhere beyond those lay the fort and beyond that, more country he’d never seen.

He wondered sometimes if his father would understand, if he could explain how the farm had felt too small, too certain. He doubted it. His father had always measured worth in acres plowed and stock well‑kept. Elias measured it in sunrises and storms weathered.

His mother, though… she would understand. She’d always looked at him like she could see farther down the trail than he could.

He shifted in the saddle and adjusted the rifle at his knee, scanning the horizon.

The trail north was quiet now. The Lakota were nothing but memory and dust on the wind, the herd long gone. In their wake, the land seemed to hold its breath — wide, waiting, alive.

He didn’t know what waited for him at the fort, or what might come after. But he knew one thing: he hadn’t yet found the place he was meant to stop.

Not yet.

—•—

By the time the sun leaned low and red against the western ridges, Elias knew it was time to find camp.

He’d learned long ago not to push too close to dusk — not when he didn’t know who might be watching.

The land here rolled in long, gentle swells, cut here and there with dry gullies and the faint scars of old game trails. The air still held the day’s warmth, but the shadows stretched longer now, blue pooling in the hollows.

Elias rose in the stirrups, scanning for a break in the ground, some hint of shelter and water. He’d passed two promising draws earlier, but both were too exposed — no cover to speak of and a little too easy for someone to ride up unseen.

It wasn’t until the light had gone soft and gold that he spotted it — a darker line of cottonwoods and willows down a shallow cut to the east. Water, most likely.

He nudged Rye that way and let the gelding pick his way down into the draw.

Sure enough, a spring seeped from the base of a sandstone ledge, pooling into a narrow run that trickled between the roots of the willows before sinking back into the ground farther down. The grass was greener here, soft and lush around the edges of the pool.

It would do.

Still in the saddle, Elias turned Rye in a slow circle, scanning the rim above — nothing but a few scattered pronghorn watching from a distance, tails flicking in the breeze. No sign of riders, no dust trails, no movement in the tall grass.

He swung down and let Rye drink, loosening the cinch just enough for the gelding to breathe easy. The horse’s ears flicked back and forth, but he drank steady and without spooking — a good sign.

Elias pulled his rifle from the scabbard and rested it in the crook of his arm as he worked, habit now more than thought. He didn’t build a fire straight away. Instead, he walked the perimeter, checking for tracks — deer and birds mostly, and a faint set of boot prints too old and washed to mean much.

When he was satisfied, he led Rye to a little hollow at the base of the ledge, where the cottonwoods grew thicker. The rock rose behind him there, blocking the west wind, and the trees on either side narrowed the line of sight from above. Not perfect, but close enough.

He unsaddled the gelding, rubbed him down with a handful of grass, and tied him off just far enough to graze but close enough to reach fast if trouble came.

Only then did he allow himself to build a fire.

Even then it was no more than a handful of twigs and dry chips, stacked low and tight and shielded by a ring of stones. The flames licked quiet and thin, just enough to warm his hands and take the chill off the evening.

He cut a strip of meat from the bison shoulder, fat still clinging to it, and set it to cook on a flat stone at the edge of the coals. As it sizzled and smoked, he crouched by the spring and cupped his hands to drink, the water cold and sweet in his mouth.

The prairie stretched out beyond the little draw, quiet now except for the soft trill of crickets and the occasional mournful cry of a bird settling for the night.

He sat back on his heels by the fire, letting the warmth seep into him as the meat cooked.

Nights like this reminded him why he stayed out here.

Not the danger, not the hunger, not even the hope of a heavy pack to sell come fall — though that mattered too. It was this. The quiet. The clean air. The knowledge that every day was his alone to claim or squander.

He thought of his father sometimes on nights like this, wondering if the old man ever felt that kind of freedom when he was young — or if he’d ever wanted it.

He doubted it.

Elias reached for the strip of meat, testing it with his fingers, then tearing off a bite. It was salty and rich, and he chewed slow, eyes fixed on the faint glow still lingering on the horizon.

Not much left now but dark.

He finished his meal and banked the little fire low, just embers now under a thin blanket of ash. He’d keep it smoldering through the night — enough to coax back to flame if needed, but nothing bright enough to give him away.

He settled against the rock ledge, rifle laid across his knees, hat pulled low.

The night air settled cool and dry over the draw. Somewhere up the ridge a coyote yipped, and in the distance he thought he heard the faint, hollow drum of a pony’s hooves carrying on the wind — or maybe it was just the echo of his own memory.

Either way, his eyes stayed sharp as the stars came out one by one.

Tomorrow he’d ride into the fort.

But tonight, he belonged to the wild.