Feudal Pacific

1

The sun was setting over the vast Choctaw plains, its last rays stretching long shadows across the swaying prairie grasses. The colors of the sky blended from amber to soft rose as the day drew to a close. A whisper of wind rustled the fields, carrying the distant lowing of cattle and the gentle song of birds settling in for the night.

Smoke drifted lazily from the stone chimneys of scattered homesteads. The laughter of children at play mingled with the earthly scent of freshly plowed soil and the delicate fragrance of wildflowers.

An old wooden windmill turned slowly in the breeze, drawing water from deep below the earth to slake the thirst of the parched land. George Winkler stood beneath the windmill, letting the cool water sluice the sweat and grime from his weathered face and neck. He'd been walking behind a plow since sunrise, the dust and heat a constant companion. Gazing out over his land, George spotted a familiar carriage approaching, pulled by a single tired horse. He sighed.

"Dammit, Patty," he muttered. "Boy's gonna be the death of me."

Deputy Clif Burks reined his horse to a stop in front of the farmhouse. Patrick leaped from the wagon and dashed inside before George could even catch his eye. The sight of the deputy's six-shooter glinting in his holster made George's stomach clench.

"Clif," he said, nodding a greeting. "What's the boy gone and done now?"

Burks stepped off the wagon, removed his hat, and wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "Those same boys again, George." His voice was heavy, as if bringing the news weighed on him, like he hadn't delivered similar news half a dozen times before. "I talked the sheriff outta lockin him up overnight, but you best have a word with him. It was...different this time, George. And a boy like Patrick, he's gotta be careful about fighting."

George bristled. "Cause he's Japanese? Those white boys can scrap all they want, but my boy's gotta watch his step?"

"Now, George, you know that aint what I'm sayin." Clif held up a placating hand. "I'm just tryin to help, is all."

"I'll deal with it," George snapped. "Now if you don't mind, I got a farm to run and a boy to raise."

The deputy climbed back into his car and left in a cloud of red dust. George stood watching the carriage until it disappeared over the rise toward Ewing.

Granny Opahaksun sat on the porch in her rocking chair, a silent sentinel; she hadn't spoken a word since Grandad Patrick died more than a decade ago. The scent of frying hog-jaw and baking biscuits drifted out from the kitchen, but George had no appetite.

"Holler if you need anything, Granny," said George as he passed her on his way into the house.

He found Patrick in his room, hunched on the bed, dried blood and bruises marking his face. The sight was a fist to George's gut. "Little shits, all of em," he growled, sitting beside his adopted son. "Want I should have a word with their folks?"

Patrick's eyes flashed. "You do that, they'll kill me."

"Well I can't just sit by and watch this keep happenin."

"You could teach me to fight," Patrick mumbled.

George sighed. There was a time he might've taught the boy how to throw a punch, and take one on the jaw, even handle a gun. But violence turned his stomach these days. The sound of gunfire brought back memories best left buried. "I went through the same thing at your age," he said. "Got my ass beat more times'n I can count, on account of bein Choctaw and Irish."

Patrick snorted. "Aint the same."

"How you figure?"

"You're not..." The boy gestured at himself, lip trembling. "You're not Japanese."