A twig snapped like a note out of tune with the tranquil, cool Colorado night. The three fur trappers, huddling in their tent, awoke with a start.
"You think we caught something?" one of them whispered.
"That didn't sound like a sprung trap," the boss said.
"Somebody stealing our stuff?" the other asked.
"Let's hope it ain't Injuns," the boss replied.
Each man grabbed his loaded rifle. They peered out into the darkness. The embers from the campfire were just about gone. Their furs laid undisturbed, folded and tied up in packs. They stepped softly out onto the foliage in their socks, eyes scouring the silent trees.
Startled by the clap of metal followed by the pop of broken bone, the boss aimed his rifle to the left. His partner howled in agony. "My leg!" he cried. "That's one of our traps!" the boss said.
He spun to the right at the crack of another trap. The other man was down on one knee, gasping for breath, blood and marrow coming out of his leg.
An invisible arrow whistled and pierced its target. The boss turned to see the man on his left collapse, the arrow in his chest. "They're attacking!" he cried. He fired a shot into the dark. Another arrow burrowed into the man on his right. The boss stepped forward. The metallic teeth crunched into his leg like a thousand ferocious canines. He dropped his rifle.
Suddenly, he was on his knees, surrounded by Indians.
"What's wrong, jack?" he heard. "Feeling crunchy?"
Bewildered by the sight of a scowling, shirtless white man in cut-up jeans and Converse sneakers, the trapper had no idea the man was from the future. His tattoos of Chinese characters and Rocky & Bullwinkle might as well have been hieroglyphs. He tried desperately to recall if he knew the man as the ignoble savage drew a samurai sword from a sheath slung over his shoulder.
"Why?" the trapper screeched.
"I've come from the future to protect my furry friends from fascists like you!"
Lance thrust the sword into the poor trapper's heart. With relish, an Indian warrior grabbed the trapper by the hair and scalped him. Lance marveled at his efficiency. "Get the man some Rogaine!" he said.
Chief Hawk studied Lance's expression as he approached. He accepted Lance's madness as fierce zealotry. After all, so much of what he said had come true and the advanced weaponry he helped them procure had begun tipping the balance of power in their favor.
Lance's eyes zeroed in on the packs of fur. "Are those furs?" Lance asked.
"Yes," Chief Hawk replied. "Shall we take them?"
"Bury them!" Lance said. "The Great Spirit is offended by greed and demands we take only what we need."
"Yes, of course. You are the Prophet."
"Brothers," Lance said, "I'm proud of what we've done today. And, in just two days, our righteous mission is complete." He reached into his man purse and pulled out an incandescent light bulb. "Behold the white man's medicine!"
The posse howled, booed, and hissed.
"Greed created this," Lance continued, "and greed is the root of all evil. This wicked medicine will spark a chain of events that will destroy your noble way of life! Death to Edison!"
"Death to Edison!" they responded.
"We'll camp here and gather our strength," Lance said.
The warriors cheered. Soon, they transformed the smoldering embers into a crackling bonfire. Lance began rolling weed into joints. He offered one to Chief Hawk.
"It is a great honor fighting with you," the Chief said as he accepted. Lance lit both of their cigarettes. "Nah, bro. The honor's mine," Lance replied. "I'm just a kid from Fresno."
The older men enlivened the evening with their drums and songs. To Lance, they seemed to bang in rhythm with the Earth's pulse. The younger men rushed to their feet and tore into their traditional dance.
"Woo!" Lance shouted. He jumped to his feet and started break dancing. He danced the moonwalk and the caterpillar. He spun on his back, jumped to his feet, then stunned everyone with a back flip.