shortly after the American Civil War, which ended in 1865. Pacer Burton is the son of a Kiowa mother (Indian) and a white Texan father who works as a rancher. His family, including his half-brother Clint, lives a modest life on the Texas frontier. But that peace is shattered when a nearby Kiowa tribe begins raiding neighboring homesteads.

Caught between two worlds—Kiowa and white—Pacer struggles to find where he belongs. At first, he tries to stay neutral, torn between loyalty to his mother’s people and his father’s world. But everything changes when a white man kills his mother, and the local settlers turn against Pacer for being a “half-breed.” Branded as an outsider, he joins the Kiowa in their fight.

However, the cycle of violence spirals. When the Kiowa retaliate and kill his father, and later attempt to kill his half-brother Clint, Pacer is forced to face a devastating truth: no side sees him as truly one of their own.

He helps Clint, ties him to his horse, and sends him off toward the crossing to find the doctor. Then, without another word, Pacer turns and rides off alone—back to fight the Kiowa.

By early morning, Clint wakes to the sound of a holler—someone's riding into town, badly wounded. Limping, still weak, he rushes outside and sees it’s Pacer.

But Pacer doesn't dismount. Bloodied and swaying in the saddle, he raises a hand. “Don’t come any closer,” he says, his voice heavy. “It’s too late for me.”

He tells Clint that when he was out there fighting the Kiowa, he saw the flaming star—the omen of death. He knows he doesn't have much time. He says he'll ride up into the hills alone and die where the land is quiet. “I trust you not to follow me,” he adds.

Then he turns his horse and spurs it forward, disappearing into the rising sun, toward the hills—toward the end. **

Pacer never expected to open his eyes again—let alone wake in a quiet cabin, bandaged and laid in a warm bed. The scent of woodsmoke lingered in the air, soft sunlight filtering through rough-hewn shutters. Everything felt distant, like the hush after a storm.

Fragments came back in flashes—the clash with the Kiowa warriors, the burn of his wounds, the desperate ride to the crossing to check on Clint. After that, it was darkness. A blur of pain, hooves pounding beneath him, the wind biting his skin… and then nothing.

He'd ridden out to die. And somehow, death hadn’t taken him.

He opens his eyes with a gasp, just in time to feel a sharp pain in his side. You’re leaning over him, covered in blood—not yours—and holding a heated blade and the arrow you pulled out from his side.

“You… patchin’ me up or finishin’ the job?”