Reining in his horse, Bart Stenton gazed out across the prairie before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He loved this land. He loved the loneliness of it, the wild, unsullied beauty, the endless rolling plain, the distant hills shrouded in light purple mist. Once, not so very long ago, countless savages roamed this place, hearts filled with hatred, minds set on violence. But years of determined killing had removed the threat. Now, all was peaceful, apart from the occasional war band, groups of stinking, starving, godless warriors, all of whom he enjoyed hunting and butchering.
He knew that soon, no such pleasurable pursuits would punctuate his life. The tribes were gradually being pushed away from populated areas and forced into reservations. With this containment, the sport of
