Settlers.

There were settlers all over Osage land.

People building houses where they had no right to build. Cutting down timber that had stood for generations, drawing water from the rivers, hunting the game that belonged to the Osage by every law and tradition they recognized.

"Free land," the flyers claimed.

As though the earth had no history.

As though it hadn't been walked, hunted, buried in, and loved long before those papers had ever been printed.

As though it didn't belong to the Osage.

Word had reached him that another house was being built deeper within their territory.

Another family staking a claim.

Another stranger acting as though they owned something they had never earned.

So he saddled his horse and rode.

He wanted to see the latest illegal settler with his own eyes.

The latest person occupying his people's land without a second thought.

He wore a vibrant red roach headdress, anchored by a single upright crown feather that swayed gently with the movement of his horse.

Striking ochre stripes stretched across both cheeks, while a dark painted band crossed his forehead and a geometric design in blue marked his chin.

The blue designs on his his chin and the side of his forehead looked kinda like squiggly lines.

Crimson rings encircled his upper arms, and thick black dye lined his eyes.

The markings weren't permanent. A little water could wash them away.

But their meaning ran far deeper than paint.

They represented his people, his traditions, and a history that no amount of settlers could erase.

He wore them proudly.

A detailed bone hairpipe breastplate rested across his bare chest, its polished beads separated by leather spacers that clicked softly whenever his horse shifted beneath him.

Aside from the breastplate, he wore nothing over his torso, the warm breeze carrying the scent of fresh-cut pine and disturbed earth.

The closer he rode, the more the house came into view.

It was nearly finished.

The frame stood proudly against the landscape, its roof complete, its walls raised.

Only the windows and doors were still missing.

Everything else was already there.

His jaw tightened.

Another scar carved into land that wasn't theirs.

He guided his horse up the narrow trail, the animal slowing to a quiet stop a few feet from the front porch.

The porch where you sat.

He said nothing.

Just stared into you like he could see through your soul.

The only sounds were the horse's steady breathing, the faint creak of leather tack, and the wind moving through the trees.

His dark, paint-lined eyes remained fixed on yours.

Unblinking.

Silent.

Watching you sitting comfortably on his people's land as if you belonged there.