By the next afternoon, Jupiter had been given everything he'd asked for to retrieve the chief's daughter.
A little Indian princess, he thought.
She must be terrified.
The picture formed on its own—small, dark pigtails sticking out from either side of her head, a brown handmade dress stitched heavy with turquoise, tiny moccasins barely touching the ground. In his mind, for reasons he couldn't explain, she wasn't tied to a post or locked in a tent—she was tied to the neck of a huge dragon, screaming at the top of her lungs while the beast thrashed around, furious at the meal dangling beneath its jaw.
Anywhere they were keeping her, she had to be scared out of her mind.
If she's anything like her father, Jupiter thought, she's probably already tried bargaining for her own freedom.
That idea made him laugh quietly to himself.
He walked toward the tipi they'd assigned him while he was there. If he came back alive, it would remain his. His place. If he didn't—he'd been told plainly—that was where they'd store animal shit until spring.
Fair enough.
Just after the sun vanished from the sky and night reclaimed the realm, the last color bled out of the clouds, and Jupiter and the rider set off toward the Comanche camp.
The world dimmed fast once the light was gone, the sky draining from orange to gray to nothing at all. Jupiter rode hard, the horse breathing heavy beneath him, muscles working steady and sure. He had no clear plan—only the certainty that if he failed, he would see his brother far sooner than he intended.
It took almost an hour to get to where they had been going. The land shifted from flat, open prairie to rolling rises, and the air grew colder as the sun slid lower. They rode at top speed the entire way, hooves drumming like a second heartbeat under the saddle.
The rider with Jupiter began listing north, his horse moving with a steady, practiced sway. Jupiter followed, keeping his eyes forward and his breathing low. Every sound felt louder in the dark—branches snapping under their horses, the whisper of wind through tall grass, the distant call of an unattainable goal.
They came to the edge of a treeline, and the rider stopped.
The sudden silence felt like someone had put a hand over Jupiter's mouth.
The rider turned his head toward Jupiter once he reached the line, eyes narrowed as if the darkness itself was listening. He pointed straight through the trees. The gesture was firm, almost impatient—like the direction itself was a warning.
Then he pointed at Jupiter and then back at the trees again.
The rider's head thrust down sharply, a quick, decisive motion, as if to silence any question or hesitation. Without a glance, he turned his horse around and galloped off again, as though the very presence of Jupiter beside him was something he could no longer endure.
Alone at last, Jupiter thought, as he dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree at the treeline. The horse snorted softly, its breath visible in the crisp night air, small puffs of vapor catching the moonlight like wisps of fog. The sound of the horse's breathing was the only noise in the otherwise still woods.
This camp could be smaller than the one I was just at, but if they had the balls to take this little girl from her camp, they must be big enough, he thought. Those Navajo could just kill 'em all if they were small and nobody would know who done it. Damn, they must be big.
He moved through the woods, his boots crunching through leaves, until the smell of smoke hit him. The sharp scent made him pause. He backtracked a little and moved due north, trying to gain a better vantage. Maybe there'd be something useful that could help him get into the camp without being seen.
Even if he did get in without anyone noticing, how was he going to get the girl out? What if she's younger than I thought? What if she starts crying when I grab her?
He hadn't even considered the possibility before. Maybe she's only 2 or 3. Maybe she's scared shitless of me. The thought hit him, cold and quick. This crazy black man runs into camp all wired up on adrenaline and grabs her, she may think that she is better off with the people that might eat her. Who the hell am I?
He should see if he can spot the kid before making any more plans. Maybe she doesn't even know how to walk yet.
He turned north, pushing through the brush and coming to a clearing. The smell of smoke hit him first—heavy, thick, like they were getting ready to cook something. He paused for a moment, trying to listen. The wind shifted, carrying the scent further, and it was enough to keep him on edge.
About 15 or 20 minutes north, he came to a vast opening in the woods that, at the moment, didn't look like much. The grass didn't even cover his boot. It looked as if someone had been mowing it all summer. All around, there were bushes. As Jupiter got closer, his boots were covered in purple. Purple petals scattered across the ground. The bush that the petals came from had giant, dark berries in place.
Jupiter had grown up on a plantation with his brother yet, He had also grown up with about 100 other people to with whom he had little or no ties to. Over time they became family and many oral traditions and legends had been passed down to both him and Finn. Jupiter paused, recognizing the plants immediately. Nightshade. Solanaceae.Belladonna. He'd seen it before. Growing up on a plantation with his brother, he'd learned to steer clear of these bushes. But tonight, this little bit of poison might come in handy.
He made his way back to where he'd tied his horse, grabbed a few supplies, and returned to harvest the berries. Carefully, he removed the seeds, placing them into one of the bags the tribe had given him. He knew that in concentrated doses, this stuff could kill, but in small amounts, it could make someone very, very sleepy. That was exactly what he needed—something to knock out the whole camp.
With his bag filled, he headed back toward the tree line, trying to keep out of sight. He found a spot where he could see the Comanche camp without being detected.
Jupiter's gaze fell on three pronghorn deer, their bodies skinned clean and hanging in the dim light, waiting to be cooked. The air carried the sharp scent of blood and the promise of a meal. His eyes swept further, landing on a tall tree—one that seemed to stretch toward the heavens with purpose. It was speaking his language. He set his gear down and approached, palms brushing against the rough bark as he began to climb. The branches twisted upward like a natural ladder, each one seemingly placed with intention, as though the tree had spent its life growing for this very moment.
From the height, the camp spread out before him—chaotic, but still, a large group of figures moving in the flickering firelight. There were several fires burning simultaneously, casting dancing shadows across the scene. One fire, in particular, was carefully surrounded by a ring of flat stones, an odd, deliberate fortification. That one, Jupiter surmised, was likely meant for the pronghorn.
His eyes caught a fleeting figure—a woman, older, her hands cradling something. He leaned forward, watching her for a moment. She moved slowly, with purpose, and as she passed between the fires, he noticed she held her bundle with an almost reverent care. Jupiter squinted into the shadows, trying to make out the object in her arms. It appeared to be nothing but trash—scraps of refuse—yet the way she handled it made him uneasy. Why would she carry something so meaningless so carefully?
She moved toward a nearby tipi, on the southeastern edge of the camp, and disappeared inside. Jupiter's eyes followed, catching a flash of something wooden in her hand as she emerged—a tripod. The firelight flickered off the smooth wood, casting it in odd shapes as it shifted in her grip. He watched, his pulse quickening, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. He needed to move.
Without being seen, he made his way over to the tipi the old woman had just exited. The camp was still, the darkness swallowing everything around him, but his eyes were sharp, searching. He moved with careful precision, a ghost in the night. As he slipped inside the tipi, his pulse quickened. The interior was cluttered with cooking baskets, pots, and other implements used to feed the group. The low hum of the camp, the crackle of the fires, faded as his focus narrowed.
He opened his bag, the musky scent of the nightshade berries filling the air as he pulled them out. One by one, he rubbed what he could across any surface that might later come into contact with food—baskets, bowls, the flat tops of wooden spoons. His movements were deliberate, making sure to leave nothing but an even, smooth stain across everything, each stroke feeling like it took too long. Every second felt like it could be his last if someone walked in. The thought of a camp member stumbling into the tipi, discovering him there, was enough to make his heart skip a beat. Stranger, guns, and mashed-up berries in a bag—he'd lose all the ground he had gained, and then some.
His spurs jingled softly, a reminder of his clumsy choice of footwear. The teeny, tiny sound was maddening, and he cursed under his breath. Stealth was not their strong suit.
Fortunately, the old woman hadn't returned before he finished. He exhaled in relief, but the weight of the situation pressed down on him. All this for a girl he hadn't even spoken to.
He felt like that was too close a call for some little brat he had never even met. He went back by his horse where he figured he would be safe. He could still hear the camp with the noise they were making. If his plan works then the camp should get real quiet. If not, the party must be over for him and his plan. All he could do was stand and brush his horse. It was far too dark to read and a fire is far too risky with the camp so close.
The last time he had brushed his horse was long before Finn had been cut down. The gelding was grateful for the attention, nuzzling his shoulder, but Jupiter's mind wasn't on the horse. He ran the brush slowly over the horse's coat, lost in thought. These were the moments when he really missed Finn.
His brother's voice echoed in his mind, the noise, the questions—always poorly thought out, but always filling the silence. Finn had never been one to sit in quiet for long. He would throw out a question, just to hear someone talk back to him, not even caring much about the answer. Jupiter couldn't remember the last time he'd answered a question without thinking about it first. They'd been different, but together. And now, with Finn gone, there was just this hollow weight that made every moment feel like it could break him in two.
He gave the gelding one last rub, his hand lingering on the horse's mane. The horse's warmth was a small comfort, but it didn't fill the ache in his chest. Can't think like this right now, he reminded himself. There was too much at stake.
Suddenly, the noise of the camp stilled—utterly. The crackle of flames died down, and the steady murmur of voices fell silent. Not a whisper, not a breath. It was as though the camp itself had taken a collective breath and held it.
Jupiter moved forward, his steps slow and cautious. As he passed through the camp, he began to see bodies scattered about—some draped on the ground like sleeping animals, others huddled in awkward positions, still. His heart skipped. They weren't dead, but they weren't fully awake either. Low blood pressure, likely. The dose had been enough to keep them unconscious, but not kill them.
He moved from tipi to tipi, each one revealing something new in the eerie stillness. Around one corner, he spotted a woman—her head drooping forward, her body bound to a tall post. Similar to a poles that held up the tent at the P.T. Barnum show him and his brother Finn had went to but this pole was shorter. She was small, almost invisible against the night, her skin so dark it blended seamlessly with the shadows. The firelight licked the surface of her skin, casting an orange glow that seemed to flicker with each heartbeat.
Her body was tiny—slight in stature, but not in the way he had expected. She was not the child he'd imagined. No, this woman was older, perhaps in her mid-20s, though her frailty made her seem smaller than the post she was tethered to. Her hair, styled in four thick knots, hung limply around her shoulders, the weight of them pulling at her scalp. Her feet, bound at the ankles, rested on the grass beneath her. Her bare skin, exposed to the fire's harsh heat, glistened with sweat and dirt.
Jupiter's heart clenched at the sight. He moved quickly, cutting her free of the post. As he did, she slumped, her body limp as a ragdoll in his arms. She was breathing, but weak—emaciated, drained of both strength and spirit. She had likely gone without food or water for far too long.
As he shifted her weight in his arms, the sudden pain across his right side took him by surprise—a sharp crack, like a twig snapping. He gasped. A rib had surely broken.
The pain shot through him, immediate and crushing. His lungs locked up, making it impossible to pull in air. He collapsed to his knees, his hands shaking as he tried to hold on to her. But his grip faltered, and the girl slipped from his arms, rolling softly onto the grass beneath her.
The two men weren't as affected by the nightshade. They must have built up a tolerance, or maybe they planted the bushes themselves.
The man with the club came toward him next, his eyes unfocused but his swing slow, heavy, and full of power. The club came down in a wide arc, like some disoriented nightmare stalking him. Jupiter barely had enough time to react, his body still struggling for air. Finn flashed across his mind as his body rebounded better than it should have as he finds his footing again.
The man with the club lunged at him next, eyes bleary from the poison, but still wild. He swung the wood high over his head. Like a native "Paul Bunyan" samurai, his sleepy eyes locked onto Jupiter's. The swing was slow, but powerful.
He yanked the blade from between his teeth, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt, and thrust upward. The cold semi-spittle steel slid in like returning home, hitting the mark—fourth and fifth ribs, mating with his heart on the other side.
The second man moved toward Jupiter, feet wide, stance heavy, his hands spread out in front of him, awkward and open. It was like watching a sumo wrestler trying to play samurai—awkward, out of place, and wrong.
He telegraphed his punch, slow and wide, giving Jupiter plenty of time to sidestep. The blade went in, straight under the ribs, into the heart. The knife twisted, pulled out, and went in again, three times before the man finally crumpled to the ground with a soft, unceremonious thud, lifeless.
"Hope they don't waste too much time waking those two up," Jupiter muttered.
He bent down, grimacing from pain, every pull, even the beat of his own heart pounded his side. Lifting the girl felt like dragging dead weight, but he forced himself to keep moving. He treated her as the precious cargo she was.
He made it back to his horse before any more "sleepy Gary's" could get in the way.
Jupiter hooked her still-bound hands over the saddle horn and climbed up, wincing with the effort. Pulling her up behind him was slow work. Her fragile body felt like it might slip through his fingers Every motion cutting deeper into his side. It felt like that log had never left his back, still lodged in there, twisting with every movement.
With her arms looped around his neck like long lost lovers, for safety, they started the long ride back to the Navajo camp.
Given the state they were both in, there was a good chance he'd pass out before reaching her home safely. And if he did, the horse may wander. The two of them would end up somewhere in Oklahoma, lost to time. Dying before they would ever know one another, not even knowing each other's name.