The Missionary wore his black frock coat and broad black hat despite the dry heat of the day.  He begged his God for strength, squared his shoulders, and strode toward the tiny jail where the Indian was being held.  The building had a low celing and few windows. The Missionary found the heat inside nigh to unbearable, but did not remove any of his clothing.  He carried an armless wooden chair across the room and placed it in front to the one cell, a couple of feet from the bars.

The Indian lay in the dirt with his back against the far wall of the cell and his head cradled on one hand. He had come as an ambassador from his people to try to talk peace with the Pale Riders, a jailable offense in many white towns.  At least they had not put him in chains or thrown rotten food at him.

The Missionary spoke: "Your people must relinquish the valley. Our people need it and they need the river.  I have talked to God, and he has said it is his will that a thriving white community be built there, with farms and businesses, and eventually the railroad. He has said he will drive forth with a rod of iron all those who resist his Holy Will, and will give us, his righteous children, the victory over you heathens and all your works of darkness."

The Shaman answered. "It is true that we cannot win the battle. The spirits have told me this..."

"Then you know it's hopeless! You'll sign the treaty and begin moving your people to Nevada, then." The Missionary cut in. It was not a question, but rather a statement, or even a command.

"No."

The Missionary jumped out of his seat, "Do you have any idea of the meat grinder your people will go through if they don't move? I do. I've seen the troop trains. I've seen the cannon.