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emotion, not now. He did what he did in the service of another. Such things were expected of him. There was no glory in it.
    He grimaced, thinking over these years—years of patience for him, years spent in search, years filled with the need to fulfill justice. Because as long as those few Pawnee lived, as long as those warriors still walked the earth, still remained free to rape and murder again, the spirits of his wife and unborn child would not rest, could not rest. Both were trapped in this world, forced to roam uselessly until the moment of full justice. A moment Neeheeowee must make happen, would make happen.
    Nothing else mattered to him. Nothing.
    He inhaled a sharp breath, and the tall Cheyenne warrior, who had only reached twenty-eight winters, sat up straighter in his seat as he drove his mount over the summit of the butte.
    He stared out again at the land around him, at the valleys and the eroded, jutting cliffs. Mystic beauty abounded here, beauty which had become lost to Neeheeowee over these past five years.
    All he saw instead was the endless space, all he felt was the waning warmth of the setting sun upon his naked back. And all he knew were the terrible nightmares of his own thoughts. They never abated. Not ever.
    Neeheeowee urged his mount into a walk along the butte, the eight ponies trailing behind him, the reds and pinks of the sky giving in to those of lavender and deep gold.
    Another might have at least noted its beauty. Another might have at least paused to look with appreciation. Another might also have left off his mission long ago.
    Not Neeheeowee.
     
    The Cimarron River Valley
    Near Black Mesa, Oklahoma
    Neeheeowee and Mahoohe joined the Cheyenne/Kiowa trading fair long before the women had finished cooking their morning meals. Naked children stirred, scurrying about the camp while Neeheeowee breathed in the familiar smells of camp life, of horseflesh, of rawhide and smoke, of hundreds of different people. Even the wind carried the aroma of meat roasting or stewing and of something new: coffee, that white man’s drink that Neeheeowee had never tasted.
    The sun felt warm on the top of Neeheeowee’s head, the ground hard, the short grass dry beneath his moccasins as he led his ponies through the camp. The sky overhead gleamed a light blue in the cloudless, morning sky, while the air cushioned the happy singing of the birds.
    Mahoohe had gone on toward his lodge in the temporary camp while Neeheeowee lingered on the outskirts. He glanced up once, then away, impervious to the sounds, the smells, the happiness that burst all around him as people who had not seen one another throughout the winter months became reacquainted. There was laughter, the happy sounds of gossip, the screaming of the children and the ever-present sound of drums as young men in the camp practiced their dance steps and songs.
    Neeheeowee gazed around him at the gay evidence of life all around him. He started forward, across camp, his lips set into a grim frown.
    He had no patience for this, any of this. He was here for one purpose, one reason only, and all else paled before it.
    He looked away.
    It was warm this day, the dry air promising an even hotter afternoon. But Neeheeowee didn’t care. He would not conduct his trade in the heat of the afternoon. He would wait to finish his business in the cooler part of the day, in the evening. In truth, it would bode better for him that way. While others relaxed around the fire, listening to stories and relating their coups, Neeheeowee would negotiate, bargain. He would not relax; he never did, not anymore, not in these last five years.
    His lifestyle demanded this vigilance anyway, it being necessary to remain on guard constantly when tracking, when traveling over the plains. But Neeheeowee carried it further; for him, this wariness was no momentary way of life. On the plains, in camp, in the company of others, he remained on the alert. Always.
    “A-doguonko do-peya