A/N: Please note that I understand the Pawnee historically suffered very badly at the hands of the Lakota and it is not my intention to make them "the bad guys" in this story; the events presented in this story are merely a reflection of the differences in the way various tribes (and the individuals, including their chiefs within them) reacted to the invasion of white settlers on their lands. It is not my intention to romanticize white settlers taken captive but to present the development of this story in a respectful, accurate manner to all tribes mentioned within. Loosely based on the experience of my great uncle's family.

Dear readers, please feel free to reach out to me if you discover inaccuracies-I am always up for learning and will gladly correct my story accordingly. I've included translations of Lakota words where there is an asterisk (*) at the end of the chapter.

Special thanks go out to my second cousin Trevor Running Bear for his patience, advice and help.

Staring out over the bluff, Sandor Three Hounds scanned the horizon carefully. The red sun cast a rosy blush over the prairie lands. He drew a deep breath, savoring the cool night air after the long journey they had made into the hunting grounds. Rain is coming.

His party had yet to find game, which had grown scarce on the prairie now that the wagon trains of the wasicu flooded the plains and scattered the game. Quietly Bronn Blackwater maneuvered his horse beside him, watching him closely as he did so. Both he and Bronn's father's had taken white wives, and thus, both men were half white as well.

"Brother, what did you find?"

"*Wasicu settlers," he grinned at Sandor. "A woman, a man and their son. They met the Pawnee welcome party over by the Platte." Bronn laughed at his own joke. "Five more along the river bank. The wh

His half-brother's sense of humor did not set well with Sandor, but he knew he took after his white mother, Smiles A Lot. As young girls, she and Sandor's mother Grey Owl had been found wandering on the prairie by their father, Chief Standing Bear, after the Pawnee had raided their caravan and killed their parents. He had taken them back to the tribe and into his tipi and thus they were married to him.

"They were probably lost," Sandor shook his head with a frown. "Not unlike our great parents and yet you smile. I do not understand you."

The old women had told Sandor the story when he was a boy, and how, after much suffering, eventually Grey Owl was accepted just as Bronn's mother had been. Yet while Bronn did not harbor anger over the wrongs done to his family, Sandor could not help but do so from a very early age.

"Older brother, do not bring up the past," Bronn shrugged. "White Buffalo has warned you about holding on to your anger."

It was true, the medicine woman had many times tried to make him see the error of his ways, but the young man could not forget what the Pawnee had done to his family or that his mother had been mistreated by the Lakota at first.

Not long after Grey Owl arrived, the largest man in the tribe, Mountain that Rides, would beat her terribly just for the sport of it and from an early age Sandor saw that she bore many scars on her arms and legs because of him. Though such beatings ended the day Standing Bear took her to wife, Sandor still bided his time with the man, and at twelve years old, he had driven his war lance through Mountain that Rides while he cooked over an open fire. It took all his strength, and Sandor had been lucky that the weapon went through the huge warrior's heart, though his face had been burned badly in the short struggle.

White Buffalo had made strong medicine for him, praying and treating his wounds night and day, and not only had Sandor survived, he grew far bigger than any other man in the tribe. The old people saw it as a sign that Sandor had powerful medicine and let him be, and from that day until manhood he was known as Appanoose, Chief When a Child.

As a man grown, Sandor did not care to keep the name given to him because of his killing, and so later he took the name Sandor Three Hounds, using both the names his mother and father had called him. His ferocity in battle earned him many names of honor, but Sandor preferred his given names.

Soon his father would return to the Great Spirit, and often he reminded Sandor that he needed to think as a chief, not react out of anger. He had chosen Sandor because he was the most respected warrior in the tribe, and also he was older than Bronn. No one had argued, for Sandor had a full necklace of grizzly claws and stood a head taller than any other man in the tribe.

After hearing his father's words, Sandor began thinking on the future of his people more and more, as well as how the actions of his people would affect their survival. He wondered how many white children who survived Pawnee raids would harbor the same anger as he had, and if they did, how many would seek revenge as he had done.

The sound of Bronn's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "We found them over the ridge. The woman had red hair, kissed by fire. The Pawnee started to take her scalp but Running Wolf chased them off."

Disgusted, Sandor spat in the dust, for he hated the practice. "Have the men gone through the whites' belongings?"

"They had white man's clothes, combs and the utensils. Much food, mostly flour and grain, but plenty to see us through a few weeks. Many Arrows was the luckiest. He found a few pouches of gold and a good rifle. Come and see."

Sandor turned his horse toward the wagon tracks leading to the remains of the settlers. "Where there are three wasicu travelling in open country, there are sure to be more."

Sound travelled far on the open prairie, and so he strained his ears, hoping to catch the creaking of a wagon or the jingling of the reins the whites insisted using on their horses in the distance.

"None are close enough to hear. Wasicu don't have the sense to be quiet when travelling in country not their own. That is why the Pawnee come upon them so easily. Besides we would smell them if there were more," Bronn joked. "None of the ones I have come across ever bathe."

It was true, for Sandor believed there were no fouler smelling men than the white buffalo hunters who dared venture into the tribe to trade guns for hides. Wrinkling his nose, Sandor nodded.

"Quiet. My ears are hurting." He wanted silence as he mulled over the situation and his men respectfully remained quiet. Sandor knew they had to leave the area quickly, for it would make little difference to the whites that it was the Pawnee who were responsible for the attack, not the Lakota, and if they made it to the soldier fort, the outcome would be very bad for his people.

The whites only see skin color, my son. His mother's words returned to must always be careful in their country, even though you are as much white as you are Lakota. She had taught him how to make the white talk, and he in turn taught Bronn, who remembered more of it than he did. Whenever Sandor and Bronn travelled alone they would practice the sounds, for it honored Sandor's mother and over the years it proved useful to know the words.

When the cavalrymen found his mother mourning over their sister near the great red leafed tree, they stole her away from the people. At his mother's urging, Sandor had remained hidden, but he could still hear their hateful words in his ears. Whore. Savage. Red Witch. He translated them to his father, who then gathered a great war party to search for his wife, the largest the Lakota had ever seen. They found the cavalrymen in the meadow by the water, exactly where Sandor had heard them say they would take her.

But they reached Grey Owl too late. Sandor discovered his mother's body, broken and bleeding and uncovered in the yellow grass of autumn. Blinded by rage, he had taken the scalps of the men he had seen abduct her, but it did nothing to assuage his grief. Ever since that day, Sandor vowed to make war on all white men who dared cross his path; still, it was a delicate matter, making war on a few whites when there were more in the area. And they were not in their home territory, and Sandor had no intention of making war in country not his own.

"Where there are three there are bound to be more. We must not stay longer than necessary. We should burn the wagon and cover the bodies with rocks so other whites will not find them."

"Should we not kill whites who enter our lands?" Spotted Tail asked.

"But we are not in our lands." Sandor finally announced. "Leave them to the Pawnee."

"I knew you would say this. I already covered them," Bronn quietly said, "and the men stripped the wagon for firewood. The Pawnee arrows are still in the bodies."

"Wasicu don't read arrows." Sandor got down from his horse and inspected the scene, waving his hand over the grass. "Brother, come look at the way the grass lies down opposite the wind. Someone got away."

"You are right," Bronn nodded as he too waved his hand over the pulped down vegetation. "Must be more whites, Sandor, for none of the people would be foolish enough to walk against the grass."

Just then Black Elk trotted over to them. "Three Hounds, we will go back when you are ready."

"Go ahead," Sandor squatted down, studying a flattened patch of grass leading into the trees. "I want to follow this trail for a while."

"Are you on the trail of a deer? A bear?"

Sandor did not answer.

Bronn squinted at him. "I will follow you, brother."

Wordlessly Sandor assented, then pointed toward a stand of young alders. Nodding, Bronn followed him on foot, the two men quietly approaching from opposite sides. Among the golden leaves, Sandor glimpsed a red haired young woman hugging her knees to her chest. Beside her a yellow haired woman who appeared several years older cowering deeper into the brush. Kneeling down. Sandor parted the thin branches with his hands and was startled to see deep blue eyes staring back at him.

"We…not hurt…you. Come…out to me." He held out his hand. "Rain…will… come night. You…come now."

The girl with the red hair's clothing was torn. Sandor noticed she was bleeding from gashes at her throat and stomach. Cautiously she began to extend her hand to him. Gently he lifted the branches to make room for her, speaking softly to her as he would a frightened horse.

A loud crack of thunder shook the plains. Sandor knew they had to leave now and yet he wanted to earn her trust; he thought of his mother, how she must have felt when she was taken, and Sandor's words caught in his throat. It would not do to snatch her up.

"We will be caught out in the open if we do not leave now!" Bronn shouted in Lakota. The yellow haired girl shrieked as Bronn grabbed her up in his arms, his brother obviously sharing none of the reservations Sandor felt.

Glancing wildly between the men, the red haired girl's face cheeks flushed angrily as she retreated back into her hiding place. "No! No!"

Both Bronn and Sandor looked at each other, for they recognized the word. Frowning, Sandor grabbed on to her pale arm. "Yes, now. We go." With one swift move, he hoisted her up on to the horse and settled her in front of him before giving his horse a sharp kick in the flank.

*Wasicu-white people.