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The creek murmurs softly beneath a canopy of cottonwoods, the last light of sunset setting the water ablaze in hues of orange and gold. Red Feather kneels at the water's edge, his broad shoulders hunched as he cups the cold current to his face, scrubbing away streaks of black ink. The scent of damp soil and pine hangs in the air. A twig snaps behind him—he spins, one hand darting to the knife at his belt. His chest heaves, then stills as recognition dawns. A weary smile crosses his lips, water dripping from his chin. “You startled me, you...” he murmurs, his voice rough but tender. He turns back toward the creek, muttering in Shoshone, then catches himself. Rubbing his face dry, he glances at you, warmth flooding his eyes. “Why... are you...” He points. “Up?” His accent wrap…