For the first few seconds England opened his eyes, it was hard to remember where he was or what he had been doing. It was somewhat similar to the state of being born.

Where am I? Who am I again?

He had forgotten about the whole dream.

His drowning, America's death, that redskin murderer…

When he finally jerked himself fully awake though, he felt his heart racing painfully against his chest as beads of sweat ran down the sides of his face. He heard the loud trots of the horse pulling his carriage as the whole thing seemed to sway back and forth. Then reality hit him, remembering where he was.

And then he remembered about the dream…those horrible series of dreams. But it wasn't a dream…now with a clear head, England could think. It had been a forgotten memory. A memory that had taken place almost two centuries ago when America was still a tiny colony and when England was his father.

England went over the memory again in his head now, trying to get rid of all the confusion that plagued his mind. It was not as fresh as it was in the dream, but the pieces were all slowly coming back to him…

Yes, America and him had sat by that cherry tree that day. And America had gotten killed by that Indian. And when he came back to life he was crying and England was holding him. And then the next morning, England told him how it was just a dream. The whole thing had never happened…

And the issue was never brought up again. Ever. That was the end of the story.

Yet remembering all the details and outcomes wasn't enough. It only came to raise an even bigger question in England's head.

Was it possibly to even dream of memories from the past? His dreams never made any sense, but this one seemed as clear as day and it was as though he had relived it. Christ, he could still remember the distinct cries and screams America had made and all of it was still ringing in his ears.

Why had he dream that? Why would he dream that?

The dream, the memory, the feelings, were all so fresh inside England as though it had just happened yesterday. It was almost too much to bear. America as a child dead. And him holding him and not knowing what the hell to do.

And that Indian…that Indian who had just looked at him and all the hate that was now building up inside England's heart. All the worry, all the desperation, all the love. And then he thought about America, the current America. His child.

Shit, a voice cried in his head. I have to go back…

Eight hours had passed since America last talked with England; it had been the morning, and now the days were shorter. At five, it was already starting to grow dark. Still, winter had it's own beautiful slow sunset as the summers had and America had always looked forward to seeing the Northern lights dance over the rocky mountains in late winter. He would possibly have to wait another of couple of months though to see that sight. The gorgeous dark pink in the sky was just as great as a spectacle however and for a few moments it was absolute bliss to watch this view and forget all the troubles of the land.

Since his parting with England, he tried to keep his mind as far away as possible from the man. Every day though it seemed to be proven more and more difficult, as he was constantly reminded of his British heritage by everything; his people, his boss, the government, the Indians, even when he looked into the mirror.

For so long he had disowned his British blood and distinguished himself as being his own person. Now the natives and even some American scholars were claming those Indians were the first real Americans of the land and it bothered him. He didn't see himself anywhere in those people and he had watched them often; they were so savage, so vicious, so…what was the right word?

Unorthodox.

The blood in his face almost drained when he thought of the word.

Dear God, he thought. That's what my father would've said…

As he stood on the field watching sky slowly turn darker he heard heavy footsteps behind him. How many times did he tell his people he wanted to be alone?

But when he looked back, he was surprised to see a tall odd looking stranger, complete with an old western style hat and long brown overcoat. He was very odd looking; he was very clean cut and wore a very admirable mustache that seemed to just be combed straight this morning. His hair though seemed like wide tangled mess, as a couple of curls seemed to lay down to his eye. The two distinguishing features didn't add up in America's head.

He stood still as the man just gave him a small nod as stopped next to him and looked out towards the open. Out towards the dark multicolored sunset.

"These here are the dying days of the old west," the man suddenly said.

America didn't answer, for his heart fell heavily at this and he couldn't find his voice. In some aspect those words seemed poetic and in another tragic, harsh and almost an insult.

"Jones, is it?"

America nodded, but the man didn't even care to look back at him. It was then America noticed the little wooden pipe in the mans head. America hadn't even noticed the smoke coming out of it.

"A dread of this Lobo has spread among the ranchmen," the man said in a bitter voice, "And now the price on his head is a thousand dollars."

The man blew up a buff of smoke out into the air and then looked back at America, smiling.

"A record bounty for a wolf."

America nodded. "Ernest Seton, right?"

The man known as Seton nodded his head twice, a more welcoming aura then coming off of him. America went on.

"Someone told me your ancestor in Britain was the one to wipe out the last remaining wolf there."

Seton chuckled. "So it's proven to be in my blood. A wolf is hardly a problem for me, even if he is said to be King."

"That's what the Mexicans call him."

"Have you ever seen this wolf?"

America shook his head.

"From what I hear, it's just a normal looking one. From what the ranchmen around here say, he's been seen here the past couple of nights by the reservation and it's got me worrying…"

They began to walk, talking silently enough for their footsteps in the snow to make louder sounds than they.

"Any attacks on humans?" Seton questioned.

"No," America answered.

"No?"

"Basically just some cattle gone dead. Lobo and his pack are killing one about every day. It's gotten to the point where we've tried everything."

"Don't say that," Seton said in a defiant tone. "There's always something left to be undone about a problem. The solution is always at hand if you if you're patient enough and work at it. But look at you," his eyes scanned America from head to toe.

"You're still a boy. I doubt you know anything about that practice."

America couldn't tell if Seton was teasing with him or not. The man was very hard to read, and those emotionless dark eyes didn't help. Too many men in the cavalry didn't take America that seriously because of his youth. The tone in his voice, however, the next time he spoke seemed like he was aware that he was in the presence of a higher authority.

"I need to know if you'd like to see him dead or alive."

America ran a hand through his hair, hating to admit it.

"I guess I haven't thought about it."

"Do you personally want the wolf dead?"

America pursed his lips as he searched for a way to answer the man in his head. He just didn't want him dead. He wanted him tortured, the whole kind wiped out. The animal massacred and skinned. He couldn't say it to Seton in any better manner.

The reasonable side of him however coaxed him to bit his tongue.

"I don't want anymore problems for the people who came here to this country for an opportunity they worked so hard to achieve."

"So the wolf-?"

"It'd be fine by me if you wiped them out of the whole country. Wolves are nothing but evil cowards and the people of the land think the same."

"I second your thoughts," Seton said. "But as much as you'd like to ignore it, that fact is this land was made for the wolf first."

"What?"

Seton shook his head.

"Humans are to blame, boy. As much as I hate the animal, my eyes aren't that clouded."

In that instant Seton gave him a smirk, as though trying to challenge him. This wasn't a subject America took lightly though.

"How do you mean?"

"The wolf problem is clearly something we have created."

"Elaborate."

"Well, first we alienate the great herds of buffalo that the wolves have depended on for food. Then we fill the prairies with our defenseless cattle."

"Because there isn't enough game around here, right?"

"It drives the wolves to desperate stakes."

"Whoever said the ridiculous idea about wolves being in a constant starving state is a fool," America couldn't hold back his passion any longer. "Any animal that has ever died of natural conditions or disease, the wolves never touch!"

His sudden surprise outburst seemed to leave Seton speechless. America watched though as a small amused smile began to form on his face.

"Is that so?"

The look in Seton's eyes seemed to say that he know something America did not. The full blooded passion now showed itself on America's face.

"Yes, that is," America tried to steady his angry voice. "One night Lobo's pack killed two hundred and fifty sheep and didn't eat any of it. What does that say to you?"

"You conclude it was done out of pure sport?"

America stood silent for a moment. Maybe Seton thought he was acting a little crazy thinking wolves had the ability to outsmart humans. He took a deep breath in.

"I'll give you a couple of weeks for you to see for yourself…"

"Sounds interesting."

"Lieutenant!"

America swung his head around in time to see Johnson running in full speed towards him. When he got to the two, the young private took a moment to gasp for air.

"What?"

"There's been an old Indian captured by the 6th regime that was just brought in. He fits your description."

America's eyes widened and his voice was lost as he looked from Johnson to Seton.

"We've got him tied up by the camp quarters near the foot of the hill."

"Don't let him out of your sight until I get there, alright?"

"Sir, should I call the guards and have them with you when you see him?"

"No," America growled. "I want to talk to him alone. Make sure no one is around him before I get there, do you understand?"

"Yes lieutenant," Johnson turned and rushed towards the cavalry men to deliver the news. America watched Johnson as he became a small speck in the distance before he heard Seton speak.

"Well, it seems that you're busy. I may head in for the night then."

Seton started to walk towards the reservation where the nearby cavalry campsite was. America sighed, already overwhelmed by the recent news. Seton stopped suddenly though and then turned to face him.

"I forgot to tell you…I'm not a native here myself."

America gave him a confused look.

"I'm was originally born in England, but spent my childhood in Toronto."

Suddenly interest in knowing how his brother was filled America's heart. Maybe Canada had just as bad problems as he did at the moment. They didn't talk as much as America would've liked. Usually he contributed it to it being England's fault. His little brother was now his father's favorite after the revolution after all.

"How is it?"

Seton seemed to take a moment to turn the question over in his head.

"It has it's similarities and differences. Canada's wilderness, however, seems much more tamed than America's these days."

Seton suddenly stopped, looking out at the great prairies and mountains that lay before them. America thought he could see admiring twinkle in his eye, but then Seton spoke.

"This land is vast," he muttered quietly, "but beyond these horizons, America is busy growing like an ugly, overfed, brat."

Seton turned to face his young country. For a second the two locked eyes as Seton's eyes seemed to burn something deep within America's soul

"Too healthy to slow down…too young and ambitious to care about what it destroys along the way."

Seton then turned the other way and started to walk off back to the reservation, where there was food and warmth provided for him.

America watched as he walked further and further away from him. His head slowly lolled down as his eyes pierced the dark white snow, the intertwinement of shame and fury overflowing his heart.

NOTES

Ernest Thomas Seton

Real guy. He was known for creating the boy scouts of America and he was a writer also. He also loved wildlife and wrote one book called Wild Animals I have Known featuring the famous wolf Lobo.

Some of the stuff he says in the story are real quotes made by him;

"These here are the dying days of the old west."

"The wolf problem is clearly something we have created. First we alienate the great herds of buffalo that the wolves have depended on for food. Then we fill the prairies with our defenseless cattle."

"This land is vast but beyond these horizons, America is busy growing like an ugly, overfed, brat. Too healthy to slow down…too young and ambitious to care about what it destroys along the way."

There's a lot more of him in this story so I can't tell you any more or else it would give a LOT away, but I'll tend to more facts about him when they come.

Lobo

Lobo was a wolf in New Mexico in the 1890's that grew famous after killing so many livestock and escaping death so many times from ranchers. He is real too, but again, he's also a big part of the story so I'll give you more true facts when they come. The Mexicans and citizens around there called him The King of the Currumpaw.

It'd be fine by me if you wiped them out of the whole country. Wolves are nothing but evil cowards and the people of the land think the same.

Immigrants to America back then brought their unfavorable views of the wolf with them.

"The wolf was the essence of wildness and cruel predation, the ally of barbaric Indians, a creature of twilight." - Wolf: Legend, Enemy, Icon

SO.

FINALLY all the answers will come in the next chapter and that's where the story FINALLY begins!

I'm sorry for all the exposition, exposition, exposition! but it really was needed!

If I get five reviews, I'll update the story before Christmas! Come on….reviews!