The sunlight had burned the little girl's eyes as she stared at the men responsible for the end of everything she had ever loved. Crying was, of course, what she felt like doing right now, and the sun's harsh glare was only helping things by making the tears gather at the corners of her eyes; like armies ready to march, she felt the body-shaking sobs gather ranks in her chest.

But there was so much more she wanted to do before she let these men from the coast lands see her cry.

"Tell us what we wanna know, little brownie, an' you know we'll let you go!" said the tall, thin man in the crooked hat and smelly clothes, his grin causing a black sickness to stir in the little girl's stomach, "Ain't no reason to hold you no more once you answer the question what nice Mr. Thomas put to your momma earlier."

The man grinned again, his eyes asking the unsaid; "You do remember what happened to your momma, don't you?" She took a deep, ragged breath and fought the hate in her heart back down, knowing it would only make things harder if she allowed it free reign. Her mind needed focus a girl of twelve summers would rarely be able to find if she was going to bring about the end of these cowards; these dirty people from the lands over the sea.

The slow heat of the late day's slide into evening had caused the bodies to stink, and the hot winds of the plains this time of year had carried the scent across the land. Sharta Thelmlans watched the tall man's smile whither before her frown, and listened to some of the other men kick at buzzards that wandered too close to the rotting meat of her entire world.

"Now... now, Mr. Brander, let us not press the girl," came a chalky white voice, like one a sickly greatmother might use when reassuring an injured child, from somewhere over the girl's shoulder, accompanied by the shuffling shadow of someone moving around to her right. She refused to glance over, to give any sign of weakness or interest... as her mother might have done. As long as she kept her eyes open, however, she couldn't help but see more of the man as he moved around to face her.

A shiver went up her spine; the first word that came to mind upon seeing the albino-like shell of a man that leaned so close to her bound form was "monster." "Ancient" followed shortly after... but while age had caused the warmth in her grandfather and greatmother to grow, added softness to every edge of anger and an edge of wisdom to every spoken word, this man seemed to have been swallowed by time and spit back out half-chewed.

"Not," came the voice again, even more chilling when she could see where the words came from, as he brushed a finger over her cheek, "When I have finally discovered for myself why the stones will not work."

His glee was revolting enough that Sharta finally glanced away rather than retch all over herself, catching sight of a man over the old one's shoulder placing several black stones and what looked to be a piece of red blanket into a satchel. Then the light caught the man's hand in a different manner as he put the red item into the bag, the last hours of light revealing instantly that it was a blood-soaked piece of skin.

Sharta threw up all over the wrinkled thing's hand, causing him to jerk back in what appeared to be a painfully fast snap, a yowl of disgust and anger so harsh she cringed rather than smiled at his discomfort. There was kick to her back, causing her to cry out, tears now running down her cheeks... and even she wasn't sure what had finally pressed her over the edge.

"It- it...dammit!" cried the thing that the men called Mr. Thomas as the tall one called Mr. Brander tried with all his limited might to clean the taint from his master's hand , "I was going to savor this... but I've lost my patience for the dirty vermin of this land!"

Standing, the old man in the dark blue coat shuffled over to a black-dressed and brooding man who was standing near the back of the makeshift camp that had been formed in the burnt remains of the Treole tribe.

"The stones were protected by this tribe! They were bound up, together, in a... pact, if you will," the old man prattled, strutting a little as he turned to face the little girl again, shaking a finger in her direction, "I found the answers in your mother's hide... tattooed there in the manner one might expect of such a disgustingly primitive people."

Holding out his hand, showing more life now as he obviously was leading up to some point, the old man reached over slowly to the arm of the brooding fellow he stood beside.

"The stones are protected by the very souls of every pure soul in the Treole tribe," he said with the most wicked grin Sharta would ever see, using his hand to raise the larger man's arm and point his gun in the girl's direction, "Sorry my little one, but you are standing between myself and destiny... and we can't have that."

Sharta swallowed. It was now that she must control herself, her emotions, and strike the final blow for her dead family; for her own life, as it was about to be taken. She knew what she had to do.

"Any last words?" he asked, not really expecting much of a response, but simply smirking and wheezing as the little native girl began to pick out her words in the invader's tongue.

"Yes," she said, slowly, as the sun began to set behind her to the mild surprise of a few of the men in camp, "I call upon the hours my people have lost. I call upon the memories in my family's blood."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"May my brother's punishment be painful as your acts deserve, but no more," she finally sighed, feeling all of the tension and hate flow from her body, leave her tiny and tired soul; the hate belonged to someone more practiced in its use, now, "And may you not hear the doom in his footsteps until it is far too late."

*BLAM*

There was silence for a moment, and the old man placed his withered hand back in his large dark coat. Finally, barking, he laughed and shook his head.

"The power of her people is gone, and every one of them lies dead at our feet now," he chuckled, leaning low and possessively over the sack that held the four black stones, "I can feel, even now, their power is loosed for me. No, that was the empty curse of a scared and superstitious little twat."

He stood and turned to his men, grinning.

"Throw her body with the rest and break camp; we have a nation to conquer."

A shape with long black hair separated itself from the shadows, leaning over Sammy's pallet with a shotgun in hand.

"Whatsit y'want Cutter? 'M trying to sleep here," Sammy mumbled as he tried to see in the near-pitch black, blinking as he saw that a fully-packed horse stood a little ways back over Cutter's shoulder.

"I'm leaving," came the low and firm reply, making Sammy wonder again if Cutter even knew how to whisper, "I'm taking my share."

Sammy shook his head slowly and tried to wake up fast enough to keep things straight.

"Wait, huh? What's goin' on?" he said, sitting up under the blanket and trying to catch the big and dark-looking man's eyes; Cutter was their best man in a tight spot, and losing him would mean having to find a body that could replace the man's skill with a gun or knife.

"A dream I had," Cutter replied, moving over to his horse and adjusting straps by the light of the dying coals, "I have a long way to travel."

Sam just looked at him, questioning, but not saying another word; if the big guy had lost his senses then pushin' him too hard wouldn't do any good, and he didn't seem to be drunk. As if he sensed the other man's look, the half-breed called Cutter glanced back over at his now-former partner in crime and grunted as he mounted his horse.

"My sister is dead," he said, matter-of-fact, as he glared toward the faintly glowing horizon, "I have people to kill."

He left without saying another word, and all Sammy could do was watch him go.