As Jupiter started his way across the country, he toyed with the idea of taking a stagecoach and keeping his horse tied to the wagon, hoping it might make the trip more tolerable. The thought didn't last long.
With the stage taking the most common routes, he would be riding straight into the kind of trouble that came looking for easy prey—bandits, drifters, and other such assholes just waiting to get the drop on a man boxed in by passengers and baggage. He figured it would be simpler, and safer, to make the trip alone.
If he had known the road was going to drag him all the way out west before Finn was killed, he could have saved himself five hundred miles and headed straight for the territory. He would have been there long before Lucius ever set foot in it.
No sense cryin over spilled milk.
Jupiter lowered his head, set his jaw, and pushed on into the next chapter of his Hunting Down Lucius story.
Since the Civil War ended, chaos had spread across the country. Most of it stayed tucked inside state lines, but that didn't make it any less dangerous. Violence lingered like smoke after a fire—sometimes visible, sometimes not, but always there.
Jupiter managed to cross much of the land with little incident. By the time he reached the southwestern edge of Missouri, he found himself staring down a decision that would shape the rest of his ride.
He could head south into Arkansas.
Or he could chance fate.
The shortcut ran straight through the Indian Territory.
A war state.
A stretch of land where several tribes had been forced together with no oversight from the American government and no interest from anyone else. The tribes didn't see eye to eye—hadn't for generations—and many of them lived in a constant state of war.
Before the English ever showed up, the native peoples had spread from Mexico to Canada. Now they were crammed into a much smaller piece of land, and old grudges burned hotter when space ran out.
There was a slim chance he could slide through unnoticed. He was only one man.
Arkansas wasn't much better. It hadn't fully rejoined the Union yet, and the fact that Jupiter had dark skin made little difference to the kind of people who lived there. He'd ridden that region more than once and learned to stay clear of states not yet pulled back under federal control.
He also avoided Indian war states whenever possible.
This time, those were his only two options if he wanted to make more progress than Lucius.
Oklahoma war state it was.
No more than three hours into his ride, Jupiter began seeing heads rise over distant ridges. Just quick shapes at first. Then more.
"Shit," he muttered.
He was on their home field now, with no idea where to flank, where to hide, or where to run if things went bad. His best choice was to keep riding steady, avoid looking hostile, and hope no bullet decided it knew his name.
The riders drew closer.
Movement flickered along the tree line—shadows slipping between trunks, leaves shifting where no wind touched them. He was probably riding straight toward their camp without even knowing it.
Jupiter kept his pace. No reach for the gun. No turn of the head. Just the steady creak of leather and the soft rhythm of hooves working dirt that wasn't his. If they were watching—and they were—then panic would only sharpen their interest.
Finn's face came up without asking. Blood at the corner of his mouth. Surprise more than pain. Like he'd been caught mid-sentence.
Jupiter set his jaw and rode.
Heads rose along the ridges now. One. Then another.
Too many.
He kept his pace steady. No shift in the saddle. Just a man riding where he meant to go.
The trees thickened. Shadows stretched long fingers across the trail, brushing his boots as he passed. Something moved again—closer this time. Not hurried. Not hiding particularly well either. Like they wanted him to see.
He kept riding.
The thought crept in uninvited: This might be it.
He didn't slow.
The shapes behind him kept closing, closer and closer, their silhouettes growing bigger in the corners of his eyes. He realized too late he was being guided, not chased.
Then—
The sound and motion behind him didn't just fade. It was swallowed up, like the earth itself had taken whatever had pursued him.
No heads. No shadows. No sound but the horse's breath and the quiet scrape of hooves on dirt.
He must've ridden past the camp and not even noticed.
He made camp of his own while there was still light enough to see.
Fire low. Horse close. Food cold. He ate without tasting it and slid into sleep with his hand still near the grip.
Dark settled in around him.
Sleep didn't last.
Two hours later, he woke with his feet and hands tied, slung over the back of a warrior's horse.
Every step the animal took drove his body down into the ribcage and back up again. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to remind him he was not in control.
They rode on.
A few miles later, the pace slowed.
The camp came into view.
It was enormous. Two thousand people, maybe more, spread across the land without any clear order. Tipis placed wherever someone had decided to stop and build, paths worn in only by repetition.
They rode through the camp.
Not a straight line. Not a road. Just a maze of tipis pressed close together, smoke hanging low, the smell of cooking meat and wet hide everywhere.
Organized chaos.
Much like the P.T. Barnum show Jupiter had seen the year before—everything moving at once, loud and alive, no single place to look without missing something else.
People shifted aside without stopping. Children stared with mouths open, then vanished back behind skirts when an elder's hand snatched them back. Men lifted their heads, watched him pass, then went back to their work. Women leaned out of openings, eyes wide, hands tightening on the hides like they were holding the camp together.
The horse kept moving. Jupiter's body swung with it, tied and helpless, carried through the middle of a living city.
Once they got to the tipi that was closer to the center of the group, the horse he was on came to a full stop. The ground there was churned hard from hooves, dust kicked up in little clouds that hung like breath. A cluster of tipis ringed the space, the biggest one standing in the center like a blunt, stitched-up hill.
The rider got down from his horse and walked to the back—behind Jupiter. There was a tug at his feet and the rope fell loose. The rider pulled Jupiter down off the horse and pushed him from behind toward the tipi they'd stopped in front of. No one rushed. No one shouted. They just parted like reeds in a stream, giving the bound man a clear path like he was a prize or a warning.
Jupiter was pushed inside the tipi, his hands still bound behind him. The inside was darker, the fabric walls stained and warm, the ground covered in packed dirt and scattered animal hair.
Once inside, the man behind him forced Jupiter to his knees.
An old man sat in front of him, motionless. Weathered. Tired. Skin dark as the sky outside with just a hint of amber. His eyes were so narrow they nearly looked shut.
The old man looked up at the rider that had forced Jupiter in, and also another man that had followed. The old man spoke, but Jupiter did not understand the words.
The man behind Jupiter spoke back. Not with disrespect, but with a tense, quick response that sounded more like a warning than a question. From the body language of the man to Jupiter's right, this was an uncommon thing.
The old man's eyes widened a fraction—not fear, but recognition. Like he'd realized the words had landed where they were meant to land.
After a slight pause, the two men walked out of the tent, very unhappy with what had just happened.
Jupiter looked at the old man. The old man looked back. Felt like forever. Neither man uttering a word.
The old man slowly stood up and walked closer to Jupiter. Once he was right in front of him, he reached down by the floor, never breaking eye contact with Jupiter. He pulled his hand up quick and a blade was at Jupiter's throat.
Jupiter still silent, still motionless.
The old man smiled and walked behind Jupiter. He felt a slight downward push on his hands and he was free.
Jupiter grabbed his wrists and rubbed the place where the rope had bound him. Slight burn but he had worse he thought.
The old man returned to the position he'd been in when Jupiter was brought inside, settling back down like nothing had been disturbed. Like the knife had never touched skin.
Jupiter finally spoke. "What am I doin here? Do you know what I ask, old man?"
The old man looked Jupiter over again, slow and patient, taking his weight and measure the way a keen men do. He pointed at Jupiter, then tapped his own chest.
Jupiter followed the motion and looked down at himself, his eyes landing on the badge.
"That means you are lawman, correct?" the old man said.
Jupiter nodded once. "…Yeah. You can call me a lawman. But you don't have nothin to worry on. I got no issue with you or your people. Unless you give me reason. I was just passin through."
The old man nodded as he studied him, the firelight catching the lines in his face. "You want to pass through this land safe?" he said. "I can make sure of that. You have far to go, no matter which direction you ride. I can get you out of here…, alive."
He paused, just long enough to make it clear there was a price.
"I need something from you first."
Jupiter let out a short chuckle. "You need somethin from me?" He shook his head. "I'd say you got a better chance of gettin whatever you want on your own, old man. These people you got here ain't listenin to me."
For the first time, the old man's demeanor cracked. A smile crept up, slow and seasoned.
"We are the last of our people who are free," he said. "Like you. The rest have been sent to your New Mexico." His smile faded. "I have a daughter. I want to see her one last time before I am sent there too… or before I pass on."
For an old Indian, the man spoke English very well. Too well for this to be a story he'd told only once.
"There is a tribe west of here," he continued. "They call themselves Naałaní. Your people say Comanche. They took my daughter. I want you to bring her back to me."
Jupiter turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "Why me?" he asked. "You got a whole city at your feet. Why can't they help you?"
The old man nodded. "We are not friendly with them. They are smaller than us, but they have others they can call on. If we move against them, and they answer together, we do not survive." He lowered his head. "I would go alone if I could. I would die to see her once more. But I cannot be sure I would make it."
Age and time showed themselves plainly then, sitting heavy on his shoulders.
"If you bring my little girl back," the old man said, "I will give you anything I am able. You may stay with us. Pick a wife. Pick ten wives if you wish. You will be treated as one of us."
Jupiter laughed, a real laugh this time, surprised by the fortune buried in desperation. "That sounds like a hell of a deal," he said. "But I got another issue I gotta handle. You say you'll give me escort outta here—clear to the New Mexico border—if I get your daughter back?"
The old man nodded. "That is correct, young warrior. Any resources we have are yours. I will even send a rider with you to their camp. This is all the help I can offer." His voice hardened. "If you return alive, with my daughter, and without bringing the Comanche to our home, I will give you anything you ask. If you cross us, or get my little girl killed, I will spend the rest of my days hunting you down. As a warrior yourself, you understand this."
Jupiter smiled. "Yes, old man. I can respect that."
"Give me a minute," Jupiter said. "I gotta think on this."
The old man watched as Jupiter weighed it out. One tribe. The last free one. Get her killed—I die. Bring trouble back here—I die. Go in alone—I probably die. Get caught—I die.
He sighed.
But if he pulled it off, he'd earn safe passage—and a man like this owing him wasn't nothing. And Finn's face came back again, uninvited. Hell, everyone Lucius ever had on that farm.
Jupiter exhaled through his nose and looked back at the old man. The fire popped once between them, sending a brief spray of sparks up into the dark canvas above. Outside, he could hear movement—feet on dirt, low voices, the camp settling in around them.
"Alright," Jupiter said at last. "I'll take your suicide mission. You're a crazy old bastard, but you got a good spirit."
The old man didn't react right away. He only watched Jupiter, eyes steady, like he'd already known the answer and was waiting for the words to catch up.
Jupiter started counting on his fingers. "I'm gonna need a net. About fifteen feet of rope. A bag. Flint and steel. One of those hatchet things you boys are always throwin." He paused. "And a blowgun, if you got one layin around."
The old man's mouth twitched, almost a smile.
"I should already have everything else on my horse," Jupiter added. "I can get my horse, right?"
The old man rose and motioned toward the opening of the tipi. "I will have a rider take you back to your camp, to gather your things." he said. "You will sleep here tonight."
He stopped just inside the doorway and turned back.
"Tomorrow," he said, calm as stone, "you die."
Then he laughed—deep, rolling, far louder than the words deserved. A laugh that filled the space and spilled out into the camp beyond.
Jupiter watched him, head tilted slightly, trying to decide if the old bastard really had a daughter… or if he was just that far gone.
As Jupiter rode off with the escort, the camp sliding past in low firelight and shadow, he glanced back once and shouted over his shoulder, "After I get your daughter back, I want one of those hats with all the feathers too!"