Eagle Flies hated the phrase "You can never go home again."
It just pointed out all the things he already knew.
That the plains, rivers, lakes, forests were no longer theirs. That they had been driven out, corralled into cramp quarters like animals. That every passing year he watches his people slowly lose the shine in their eyes, the glow in their skin. How once their encampment would be bustling with activity, voices calling to each other in greeting, mock anger, jest. How it grows quieter and quieter, until one day he woke up and wondered if he had gone deaf.
He misses his home.
He misses his people.
He misses his father.
He misses the way he used to be, now only a man beaten down by the ones that call themselves better.
There was nothing better about them. They were the true savages. Monsters like ones from stories come to life. They devoured the land, cutting it up into pieces and feeding it to great machines that spit out smoke and ash from their great maws. The bodies of bison piled into steaming mountains of carnage.
He used to watch them run, the rumble of their hooves vibrating the ground. It would raise up through him, stirring his blood to pump, his heart to jump in his chest. He felt so light then, pointing to them as his father smiled, hand on his shoulder.
He wants his home back.
And maybe there is a chance for that to happen. This man, Dutch, has a plan to get back at the ones who caged them.
A way to make them pay for what they have done.