Thomas and his brother Abraham were slowly making their way home through the sunken river road in the Ohio river wilderness. The sun darted through the gaps in the tree canopy; the cool air was soothing across the boys faces. Alongside them ran the mighty Ohio river. The sound of its waters trickling across the bank rocks. The boys were just returning home from a squirrel hunt carrying home their guns and skins over their shoulders, could see the wood side cabin, and the tendril of smoke raising up from the cabin chimney. But this day the smoke they saw was not emanating from was not from the chimney, but from the heap of smoldering rubble of what remained of their home.
As the boys came over the bank that hid their home in the woodland clearing and beheld the heart breaking, and terrifying sight. Their mother and sister lying in front of the house, their backs bloodied. Their younger brother laying dormant on the side with an arrow through his chest. Their father, scalped and and three arrows through his abdomen. Still holding the shotgun in his cold dead fingers. Their house burned and reduced to a smoldering pile of ash. Both Thomas and Abraham were left stunned at this sight. Who could have done this? The injuns around the Ohio river valley were relatively peaceful, but their parents were killed with what looked like clubs, tomahawks, and arrows, so it couldn’t be white men. It was either the Chickasaw, or the Creek that did this. They were up in a frenzy with the settlers over hunting ground borders.
Their suspensions were reinforced when a Chickasaw brave appeared in the door way of the remains of their cabin. The two boys dropped to the ground, and rolled behind a bush. The noise of the rustling brush warned the brave about something was watching him. The braves fears were relieved when he saw a deer appear from where he heard the noise. The Chickasaw’s body soon flooded again with fear when he heard the sharp crack of a rifle and the piercing searing pain of a rifle ball penetrate his side. The brave hit the ground struggling to stand up. But Thomas was already upon him, slamming his rifle butt into the head of the injun killing him.

How much Thomas hated this red skin for slaughtering his family. How he let hate burn in his heart and his mind against all redskin nations. The hate that drove Thomas to whip his knife across the red mans head taking his scalp. Then used the same knife to pin the scalp on the back of the Chickasaw brave.

The truth, is always standing and ever constant, is sometimes hidden and then revealed to us at a later date for our own good. What matters to us is what we choose to do in the time the whole picture isn’t plain to see. Like how Thomas choose to let hate overrun him, and drive him to merciless brutality. An act he would soon come to regret when the full truth would be reveled.