Late Afternoon, April 11th, 1879. The Comanche Encampment. Good Friday.
Some mood music
The riders regroup. There's fewer of them now than there were when the chase began, and there's a short jabbering among the remaining riders about what to do. Or at least, that's what Franklin can assume, given that he doesn't speak the language. Franklin is bound hand and foot with leather strips, then tossed over the back of a horse.
Everything is blurry without the spectacles. Brown ground blends with grey sky, but it's not long before Franklin can spot cones of white (or at least lighter tan) on the horizon. And horses. Many horses. Even without his glasses Franklin can make out the herd.
The other thing he can make out are the poles. There are three of them spread around the perimeter of the camp, and each has a corpse lashed to it. The doctor can't make out any details, but the corpses seem to have been there at least a while. Crows perch on the poles, occasionally pecking at the corpses lashed to them.
The encampment is quite large. There are at least 30 tents arranged around a central fire. Franklin is taken to a small wooden pen, tied to a stake, and left under the watchful eye of one of the riders. The rest head off to a large tent, one painted with vibrant celestial patterns. Presently another Comanche, a large, brawny fellow with a severe expression, strides up to the pen where Franklin is being kept. He looks at the scientist.
"I am Ghost Wolf." He says to the Enlightened one.
"Pale Moon says I must speak with you, for I speak the white man's tongue well. I will do so, but I do not enjoy it. Your people have done mine many wrongs. I do not forgive, and I do not forget." He stops. he seems to be waiting for a response.