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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Damn it! Crouching low on the ridge with Joseph and Rubin we see that twenty horses or more are grazing with a group of Indians in the valley, through the telescope two things are clear the Indians are young Blackfeet braves and they appear to be watching a curiosity in the same area that Drouillard is hunting in, the battle sheilds on their horses have the fire arrow emblem of the Blackfeet, there can be no doubt that more of them are in the vicinity and Clark is at least 100 miles away on the Missouri, the decision is simple in it's danger we must ride down there before they attack Drouillard, maybe a friendly meeting can be achieved, Entering the open pasture on horseback the three of us look like river bandits in a sunburned style, their is a discernible panic amongst the Braves as we approach them steady as a drumbeat I get off my horse cool as Sunday news and walk a few yards with our flag in hand, one of the youths breaks away towards me on his uncertain colt I stand undaunted by the act of bravado and he steers the animal back to his posse, Rubin and Joseph know what's up and life and death have their breeze upon us, respect introduces itself and brash violence is subdued by handshakes, as evening invites the pipe, together we camp the four of us, the eight of them, we discuss the shifting balance of power on the Plains, I inform them that there is a new eagle named America and it will look over this territory with strength and justice, they tell us about the English intrusion into the area, how furs are traded for guns and liquor, these young Blackfeet don't seemed chagrined by the thunder of change, J.A.B.
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