Lakota Honor by Kat Flannery

and what she could do. There were no conversations about her day, no card games, no moments filled with laughter. They didn't talk to each other anymore. She was isolated in the tiny shack, forbidden friends, enemies and love.
    She hiked up her skirt and climbed through the window. The smell of vomit filled her nostrils. Pa hadn't cleaned up the mess. She glanced at her bloodied, muddy apron and decided not to remove it until everything was tidied. She placed her ear to the door to listen, in case he was still home. Silence.
    In the kitchen, she stood back and assessed the situation. Pa had left his clothes, dirty and smelling to high heaven, in a pile on the floor. The cushions on the sofa were still wet from his vomit. Oh Pa. What am I going to do with you? She tossed the clothes out onto the porch to be washed. She filled two buckets, threw Pa's clothes into one and carried the other one back inside.
    From her knees she scrubbed the fabric on the sofa as best she could and sprinkled baking soda on top to rid it of the awful smell. Next she opened all the windows to air out the house and washed the floors. Nora's hair hung from her braid in damp wisps that stuck to her cheeks. The hammering and clanking from the shop echoed into the kitchen, and she wondered if she should go and see how her father was faring. The gesture would anger him. She'd be better off fetching her boots.
    She peeked at the clock on the mantel. It was ten minutes past noon, and Pa wasn't coming home for lunch. He wouldn't be able to keep anything down anyway. Knowing it was safe to escape for a while, she went out the window.
     
    Otakatay packed up his bedroll and tied it behind his saddle. He didn't like being this close to town. He inspected the place he'd slept for three nights. All evidence that he'd slept there had disappeared under the thick blanket of branches and leaves.
    He mounted Wakina and guided the animal through the trees. Noise from town pushed through the swaying leaves to swirl around him. Horses pulled wagons, boot heels clicked on the wooden walk and children's laughter eased into his mind. He set his jaw against the reminders of a life he hadn't been allowed to enter. The streets he'd never walked along without being stared at or judged. The homes he'd never been invited into.
    His eyes narrowed and his rugged features hardened. He grabbed the reins once more. He hated the wasichu. He hated their towns and their homes and the very ground they walked on. He hated that he had to mingle within their communities and buy goods from their establishments.
    He tightened his hold on the reins until his knuckles paled. The white man took what he wanted without thinking of the consequences. They held themselves higher than any other creation while they pranced around like kings in this rough, uncivilized land.
    His father was white, the first wasichu he learned to hate. Buck Morgan had been a useless piece of shit, mean to the very core and Otakatay despised him. He wished that instead of killing the snake so quickly he'd have prolonged his suffering. The son of a bitch hadn't deserved to live as long as he did. Otakatay ground his teeth until his jaw ached.
    He could see the mountains through the tree tops. He'd return soon and claim what was stolen from him years ago. He patted his thigh where he'd sewn an extra piece into the pant leg for his money. He needed more. One more kill. The man will pay triple next time. One more victim and he'd have the amount he'd need to fulfill his promise. He caressed the feather in his hair.
    He no longer wanted to kill the witch women. The softness of their skin, the smell of their hair—he'd never forget. He open and closed his hands. He could still feel their blood run down his arm after he sliced their throats. He could hear the quiet moan that seeped from supple lips as life wafted from their lungs. Sweat bubbled on his forehead and his stomach roiled. He bowed his head and inhaled until he collected