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River Otter

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Blurb

Born into a society tolerant of homosexuals, River Otter is confused by the white culture’s persecution of such men. As the war begins to wind down, Otter leaves the only home he has ever known to help Major James Morrow, commandant of Ft. Yanube, build a farm north of the fort. He begins a new life with the handsome major while coming to grips with growing hostility toward natives and rising danger from a local militia bent on eliminating all bloods from the territory.

As his physical attraction for the blond soldier slowly grows into a love perilous to both of them, Otter is distracted by personal challenges. As he struggles to survive the social and political upheaval sweeping the plains, can remain true to his own set of values?

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Prologue
PrologueWhite Stone Hill, Dakota Territory September 5, 1863 The sun rising over the smoldering village promised a hot day. The sky was clear blue and cloudless, except for the cumulus of black buzzards circling expectantly overhead. Smoke from blazing lodges rode the wind, burning eyes and carrying the acrid smell of gunpowder and the stench of death across the prairie to the coulees and the short, wooded hills where the Dakota warriors had taken refuge. The very air tasted bitter to the tongue. They were tired; their horses, spent. Even the earth beneath their moccasins seemed exhausted. On the run from the Star Chief Sibley since the battle at Big Mound two moons past, they had stood to fight him again at Dead Buffalo Lake. Now for the span of two suns, they had done battle with another Star Chief called Sully, a relentless warrior who spent his time drawing pictures with pigments soaked in water when he wasn’t killing tribesmen. Today would bring no respite. The Blue Coats and their thunder guns were still here, hovering like the feathered bone pickers circling overhead. The white army had inflicted a terrible toll on the Dakota. Warriors were accustomed to staring into the face of death, but how could even the bravest stand against big guns that shredded men and horses with bursts of fire and thunder? Inkpaduta, whom the Americans called Red Cap, a dour, pox-scarred war chief, had led them through these many days of slaughter, fighting with a ferocity born of a deep, implacable hatred of whites. He had a wily mind, vicious fangs, and terrible claws, but Sully had numbers, firepower, and tenacity. The shelling began again with the booming of cannon and the ear-splitting eruption of hot shells. The fusillade was not so effective now that they had the protection of the gullies and the hills, but Sully would soon be on the move. Their ranks decimated, the Indians withdrew, abandoning food and provisions and leaving their women, children, and wounded to the mercies of the Americans. All was lost now, but at least some of them would live to do battle another day.

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