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.

Oswald squinted as he was brought to the Comanche encampment. Whilst his eyes could not make out things very well that were more than a few feet before him, his hearing was as keen as ever.

When Ghost Wolf approached him as he was tied to the staking, wondering what they would do to him, his eyes regained focus.

"Greetings Ghost Wolf. Politeness dictates that I should shake your hand, however I am unable to do so at this time, and apologise. Whilst it is not the language of your tribe, I can speak Cherokee if that would ease your discomfort in speaking our tongue." An awkward smile crosses Oswald's face. "My name is Doctor Oswald Franklin. I am a man of science and education. I seek only to understand, not to cause any harm to you or anyone else. I was travelling to Blackthorn to rescue a friend who was in trouble, before your tribe brought me here instead."

"My discomfort has nothing to do with my ability with your tongue, Paleface. It was men of your Science and your Education who smiled at me when I spoke to them, told me our tribal lands would remain in our people's hands, and then sent in the Long Knives to slaughter my band when I turned my back." The Indian says in a grim monotone. There is pain in that grim voice, barely restrained pain. "If you have come to understand, then understand this. The town will die screaming, like so many of our bands have. Your troubled friend will be among them. You are alive now only because Pale Moon had a vision of the moon weeping tears of silver, and sent the riders out to collect those tears before they dropped to the earth. He will find a way to put you to use, or he will let us kill you. Do you understand this?"