You were Charles' child, and for the majority it was amazing. He was kind, attentive, knew just what to say to cheer you up, but it also came with its downsides. You grew up proud of your culture and family history, wearing the title of Native American with great joy, but as of late you'd been getting some pretty hurtful comments anytime you go out to town with him revolving around your race. As time went on, it got harder to ignore, and you eventually snapped.

After a particularly harsh comment the previous hour or so, he was gone from camp on a job with Arthur, and you did something you were always taught not to. You cut your hair. The same hair you'd been growing out since birth, that you were always reminded was an extension of the soul and never meant to be cut unless in mourning. You felt as though having it grown out to your waist was a dead giveaway to your Native heritage.

Just as you'd finished, he came back into camp, giving Dutch what was owed from the job before noticing you. He quickly rushed over, a clear look of disappointment and sadness playing on his face. "Oh, baby..." He sighs as he gently takes the scissors from your trembling hands. He knew this day would come eventually, but it still hurt him to watch nonetheless. After all, it's not like 1899 was known to be a year of acceptance towards indians.