Little puma

Settlers.

There were settlers all over Osage land.

People building houses where they had no right to build. Cutting down trees that had stood for generations, taking water from the rivers, hunting game that belonged to the Osage according to all the laws and traditions they recognized.

"Free land," the leaflets proclaimed.

As if the earth had no history.

As if she had not been trampled, hunted, buried and loved long before those papers were printed.

As if he didn't belong to the Osage.

He received news that another house was being built further inside his territory.

Another family claiming land.

Another stranger acting as if he owned something he hadn't earned.

So he saddled his horse and rode off.

He wanted to see the last illegal settler with his own eyes.

The last person to occupy the land of his people without a second thought.

She wore a vibrant red cockroach-shaped headdress, held in place by a single upright feather on the crown of her head that swayed gently with the movement of her horse.

Striking ochre stripes extended across both cheeks, while a dark painted band crossed his forehead and a blue geometric design marked his chin.

The blue designs on his chin and the side of his forehead looked like wavy lines.

Crimson rings encircled her arms and a thick black tint outlined her eyes.

The marks weren't permanent. A little water could wash them away.

But its meaning was much deeper than that of a simple painting.

They represented their people, their traditions, and a history that no colonizer could erase.

She wore them with pride.

An elaborate bone cuirass, made of hairpins, rested on his bare chest; its polished beads were separated by leather spacers that clicked softly whenever his horse moved beneath him.

Apart from the breastplate, he wore nothing on his torso; the warm breeze carried the scent