Chapter Text
Little Big Horn Valley, Montana, June 25, 1876
General George Armstrong Custer looked around at the chaotic battlefield, his heart heavy with the weight of defeat as his beloved 7th Calvary, once at nearly 300 strong, now lay in a sea of blue and blood. The cries of the dying horses and men pierced the air, mixing with the triumphant whoops of the Native American warriors surrounding them. His fur, once gleaming gold in the sunlight, was now matted with dust and gore, his eyes reflecting a grim determination.
Circling round his men, Custer took in the nightmare-inducing sight of the horde of Sioux, Arapaho, and Northern Cheyenne warriors, their fiery eyes and painted faces a stark contrast to the dusty landscape. The smell of gunpowder and blood hung heavily in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of fear and despair. He could see the weariness etched into the fur of his soldiers, their spirits broken as they fought for their very survival.
Lieutenant Dax Sterling, a silver wolf with piercing blue eyes, had fallen to his knees, his body punctured by two arrows that had found their way through the chaos. The weight of his impending demise bore down upon him as he felt the warmth of his lifeblood seep into the ground beneath him. But, despite the agony, Dax's instincts remained sharp as his gaze locked onto the war chief of the Sioux, the distinctive lightning bolt painted on his face and the old scar on his cheek a grim reminder of battles past. The silver wolf felt a strange kinship with the cougar, as if their destinies were entwined by fate itself.
Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, Dax managed to stand, his Colt revolver trembling in his gloved hand as he tried to reload it. Each movement sent shockwaves of pain through his body, yet he was fueled by a fierce determination that had seen him through many battles before. He took a deep breath, the coppery scent of blood filling his nostrils as he focused on the warrior charging towards him.
Crazy Horse was a blur of motion amidst the chaos, his fiery eyes locked on Dax as he approached. The Henry Repeater in his hand was a symbol of power and defiance, a stark reminder of the changing world that threatened to swallow them all. His war cry pierced the air, a haunting melody that seemed to resonate with the very earth.
Dax, though wounded, found an unexpected resolve. His eyes never left the charging cougar's, a strange sort of respect growing within him. He fired his Colt, each shot echoing through the battlefield, yet all missing their mark. It was as if the very fabric of fate itself had decided to shield the warrior.
Still, the war chief leveled his repeater on Dax. His hands steadied, his eyes cold and determined, reflecting the steel of his weapon. Dax's laugh, weak as it was, seemed to carry a strange warmth, a hint of camaraderie amidst the carnage.
"See you in hell, chief," he murmured, his voice a mere rasp amidst the din of war.
BANG!
The world around Dax Sterling froze for a fraction of a second, the roar of the Henry Repeater echoing through the field as the bullet found its mark. His chest exploded with pain, the force of the impact sending him sprawling backward. He watched with detached fascination as the blue sky grew closer, the earth rushing up to grab him in a cold embrace. The sound of the battle grew faint, replaced by a deafening silence that seemed to stretch on forever.
As he felt the life leave him, memories of his past came flooding back, like a river of moments that had led him to this very spot.
West Point, New York, March 5, 1859
The air was cool and brisk as the new recruits assembled, their excitement and anxiety palpable. The diverse group of young men, each hailing from various corners of the vast nation, from Texas to Tennessee, from Arizona to Florida. And everyone who was signing up each had his own reason.
Among them was the young 19-year-old Texan, Dax Sterling. His silver fur gleamed in the early morning light, a stark contrast to the shadows cast by his stern gaze. His lineage was steeped in valor, with uncles Richard and Ray Sterling having made the ultimate sacrifice at the Alamo and San Jacinto. Dax had come to West Point to continue their legacy, to fight for a cause greater than himself. He was a natural leader, his presence commanding respect, and his spirit never one to shy away from a challenge. The very essence of his being was forged in the fires of conflict, and he approached each day with the same grit and determination that had driven his ancestors.
Not two recruits down from Dax, a 20-year-old Irish wolf named Sam Davis stepped forward, his ginger fur ruffling slightly in the breeze. His soft hazel eyes searched the horizon, hinting at the tumultuous emotions that swirled within him. Born in Ireland but raised in the lush Central Ohio Valley since he was seven, Sam had come to West Point to escape the shadow of his father's disapproval, seeking a path that would earn him the respect he craved. Despite the distance from his homeland and the weight of his father's expectations, Sam remained true to the one tradition that had always brought them together: the art of the blade. The elegant dance of steel on steel had been a bonding ritual between them, and now it was the very skill he hoped would win him esteem and honor in the eyes of his comrades.
A few steps beyond Sam, Caleb Donald, a robust German Shepherd from Farragut Tennessee, stood tall, his fur a deep shade of chestnut with a proud black saddle. His lineage echoed with the valor of his great uncle, a hero at the Battle of San Jacinto, and Caleb had come to West Point to ensure that the Donald name remained synonymous with bravery and patriotism. The fire in his eyes reflected the burning desire to stand firm against the tides of war that threatened to consume their young nation. With a stoic nod to Dax, Caleb's determination was clear: he would not falter in the face of adversity.
Further down the line, a trio of young wolves caught the eye, each with their own tale to tell. Kyle "Mooch" Jones, the burly son of a Texas ranch owner, had the shoulders of a bull, but the gut of a pig. His fur, the color of a dusty plain, was often flecked with the blood of the cattle that had been his life's work until this moment. The slaughterhouse had been his domain, his family's legacy, but he had left it all behind for the call of duty. His eyes were hard and unyielding, reflecting the harsh reality he had been born into, yet a softness lingered in the corners that hinted at a soul yearning for something more.
Doug "Salty" Smith, a sleek grey wolf with a mischievous grin, had traded the vast expanses of the sea for the rigid structure of the military. The life of a fisherman had grown too simple for his adventurous spirit. He had watched the horizon for too long, dreaming of battles and heroes. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, danced with excitement as he took in the grandeur of the academy. The salt of the sea had left a residue on his fur, a constant reminder of the life he had chosen to leave behind.
Tyler "Shakey" Wilson, a short, scrappy wolf with fur the color of Houston alleyways, had known only poverty and hardship. The slums had shaped his lean body and quick reflexes, making him a natural fighter. He had come to West Point to escape the shadow of his past and the whispers that followed him. His eyes, searched for any sign of weakness in his new comrades, ready to prove that he was more than just a street urchin.
Then there was a very handsome fox named Martin Wilde. His fur was the rich auburn of a well-aged whiskey, and his eyes held the warmth of a Southern sunset. Hailing from the humble lands of rural Alabama, he had come not just to serve his country but to win the heart of the woman who had captured his soul. That woman was none other than Kayla Fray, the daughter of Captain Max Fray. However, their love was cloaked in scandal. For unbeknownst to many, Martin and Kayla had already shared a profound bond that had led to the birth of a child out of wedlock. This secret weighed heavily on Martin's heart, a constant reminder that his path to redemption and acceptance would be fraught with challenges.
"ATTENTION!"
The booming voice of the British buffalo, Bogo, snapped the recruits to attention, their hearts racing like a stampede of bison. Each young man knew that the next four years would be a crucible, a fiery test of their mettle that would either forge them into officers of the United States Army or see them cast aside as unworthy. The buffalo's gaze swept over them, his eyes cold and assessing, as he strode down the line.
"I am Lieutenant Colonel Elijah Bogo," the British buffalo announced, his gruff voice carrying the authority of a seasoned commander. His eyes, as sharp as the saber at his side, scrutinized the recruits before him.
"You are now part of the United States Military Academy. Here, you will learn the art of war, the discipline of the soldier, and the virtues of valor and sacrifice. Some of you will leave as officers, ready to serve our great nation. Others will leave as lessons to the rest."
The recruits held their ground, eyes fixed straight ahead, as Lieutenant Colonel Elijah Bogo paced in front of them. His massive frame and stern expression served to intimidate even the bravest among them. His gaze was a storm that swept over each new face, searching for any sign of weakness. As he approached Dax Sterling, the silver wolf's fur bristled under his scrutiny.
"Ah, a Texan," Bogo said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Yes, sir," Dax replied, his posture not wavering despite the contempt in the buffalo's tone.
"And what makes you think you have what it takes to survive here, son of Texas?" Bogo sneered, his words cutting through the air like a hot knife through butter.
Dax met his gaze, his eyes flashing with a fiery resolve.
"The same thing that brought me here, sir: the desire to serve my country and honor my family's name."
This answer seemed to satisfy the buffalo, a sort of smirk playing on his lips.
"Good," Bogo replied, his smile fading as he turned his gaze to Sam.
"An Irishman, eh?"
Sam felt a flicker of pride as he stood before the imposing buffalo, his heritage a beacon of strength amidst the sea of uncertainty.
"Yes, sir," he said, his voice firm despite the tremor in his legs.
"My blood ties can be linked all the way back to when Ireland found Christ."
The words hung in the air like the crack of a whip, a declaration of heritage and resilience that seemed to silence the very wind. Bogo's eyes narrowed, his frown deepening as he took in the proud stance of the Irish wolf before him. Dax felt the tension thicken, his own heart beating faster in anticipation of what was to come.
"And what makes you think I give a shit about that?" Bogo asked, moving on to the others with a dismissive swipe of his tail. His words were a challenge, a barbed wire fence around his own insecurities and the prejudices that colored his views. And as he stepped away, Dax could see out of the corner of his eye Sam's jaw clench, a sigh if barely restrained anger.
The rest of the inspection passed without incident, each recruit presenting themselves to the buffalo with varying degrees of confidence and fear. Yet, the words that had been exchanged lingered in the air like a storm cloud, promising a tempest of emotion and conflict to come.
But the moment Bogo got to Martin, the air grew thick with tension. The buffalo looked at the fox as if he were something unpleasant he'd stepped in.
"Where do you hail from, boy?" Bogo bellowed, his English accent rolling over the words like thunder. But just Martin went to open his mouth...
"Don't bother," Bogo immediately interjected, his hand slicing through the air like a saber cutting short any hope of a reply.
"I can already tell you're going to be a waste of my time."
The words hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive. Now any wise recruit would take the words with a grain of salt. But unfortunately, Martin Wilde was not most recruits.
"Now you listen..." Martin began to say, but before he could get out his sentence, Bogo stepped forward and pushed him hard, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The force of it knocked the wind out of him, leaving him momentarily stunned.
"Don't test me, FOX!" Bogo roared, his eyes flashing with a fury that seemed to burn brighter than the sun that beat down upon the recruits.
"You think because you're better than the rest of us? That you can charm your way out of hard work and discipline? I've seen your kind before, and let me tell you, you won't find any quarter here!"
The buffalo's words echoed in Martin's mind as he stumbled back into line, the sting of humiliation burning in his cheeks. The other recruits glanced at him with a mix of pity and fear, unsure of what to make of the confrontation. The fox's eyes met Dax's, and the silver wolf offered a nod of solidarity, a silent promise that he would not let Bogo's words define them.
"NOW LISTEN UP, YOU LOT!"
The recruits snapped to attention as Bogo's powerful voice boomed once again.
"This academy is not a playground for your adolescent games. You are here to become soldiers, to be the steel in the spine of this nation! Is that clear?!"
"YES SIR!"
The recruits bellowed in unison, the words crashing through the air like a thunderclap, as they snapped to attention. Bogo's message was clear: he would not tolerate insubordination. The buffalo's gaze lingered on Martin for a moment longer, the fire in his eyes a stark promise of the trials that lay ahead. The fox met his stare, his own eyes burning with a mix of anger and resolve.
"From this point forward, you are not individuals," Bogo bellowed as the recruits marched in unison towards their new quarters, his words echoing through the valley. "You are a single unit, a fighting force to be reckoned with. You will eat together, sleep together, and most importantly, you will learn together!"
"YES SIR!"
The recruits sounded again, their collective voice a thunderclap that echoed through the courtyard.
"And I will give you the same advice I will give this FOX!"
The words reverberated through the dusty air of the training ground, a declaration that seemed to challenge the very heavens themselves. Bogo's eyes remained fixed on Martin, the fox whose very presence seemed to stir the pot of contention. The buffalo's gaze was like a hammer, driving home the point that here, in the hallowed grounds of West Point, there would be no room for the foibles of youth or the whims of fate.
"Don't test me! I will pass every time!"
The words of Bogo thundered in Martin's ears as he staggered to his feet, his auburn fur bristling with a mix of anger and determination. He knew that the buffalo's hostility was not just about his heritage but a challenge to his very core. This was not the first time he had faced prejudice, but it was the first time it had come from a man who would shape his future.
"These officers will lead you to your dorms! Chow is at 1700 hours! Until then...DISMISSED!"
With that, Bogo spun on his heel and disappeared into the dust kicked up by the retreating hooves and paws of the recruits. The once proud line of young men now looked like a ragtag band of misfits, their spirits slightly dampened but their resolve unshaken as the prepared to face what would be their version of hell for the next four years.
The next morning, Dax found himself seated beside Sam in a classroom that smelled faintly of gunpowder and ink, the windows open to the cool morning breeze. The room was filled with the dull rumble of the instructor's voice as he droned on about the intricacies of cannon warfare. The blackboard was a sprawling mess of diagrams and notes, detailing the various types of shells they would soon be firing. It was a lesson that would soon become second nature to them, but for now, it was a maelstrom of technical jargon and military strategy that seemed as foreign as the lands they had left behind.
But during that time, the handsome Irish wolf noticed a beautiful she-wolf standing right outside the window. She wore a lovely blue dress that fluttered in the breeze, the fabric shimmering like the feathers of a rare blue jay. Her fur, a rich shade of auburn caught the early morning light, and her eyes, a piercing shade of amber, seemed to see right through the dust and chaos of the training grounds. Her posture was elegant, a stark contrast to the rough and tumble world of the academy. She clearly came from an upper-class family, her grace and poise a beacon amidst the harsh reality of their new lives.
"Hey, Dax," Sam whispered, his voice barely audible over the instructor's lecture. "Who's she?"
Dax looked up from his notes and followed Sam's gaze to the figure outside the window. His frown deepened, the fur around his muzzle bristling slightly.
"She is Terra Guerrero," he said, his voice low and filled with a hint of malice that was uncharacteristic of his usual warm Southern drawl.
Sam looked up at Dax, his curiosity piqued.
"Guerrero...why does that name sound familiar?"
Sam's question hung in the air, the curiosity in his voice stark against Dax's hostility. The silver wolf's eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer to his friend.
"Her father is Captain King Guerrero, Sam," he said, his voice low and filled with a prejudice that was unfortunately commonplace in that era.
"And not just any captain, but one of those 'Mexican' officers. They don't hold with our kind."
Sam's eyes never left Terra, her beauty a stark contrast to the grim reality of their surroundings. His heart quickened at the thought of her, and his mind raced with visions of gallant gestures and whispered sweet nothings that would surely win her over. The very idea of Terra being out of his league was a concept Sam refused to entertain.
As the day dragged on, the recruits found themselves outside on the rifle range, the sun beating down on their heads as if to forge their spirits as surely as the metal of their weapons. Captain Max Fray sat atop a black horse, the fox's crimson fur gleaming under the harsh light, his smile a beacon of encouragement amidst the dust and sweat.
"Welcome to rifle training," he called out, his voice carrying the weight of his experience.
"Here, you will learn the ins and outs of your weapon."
The captain dismounted his horse, his boots hitting the ground with a firm thud. The recruits watched with a mix of awe and trepidation as he strode over to the rack of rifles, seeing that Captain Max Fray was a man of action, his eyes always assessing, his voice a steady command that had seen men through battles and brought them back to tell the tale.
"This is a Springfield Model 1842 rifle," Captain Max Fray announced, holding up the weapon with an easy grace that spoke of his long familiarity with it.
"It can fire two to three rounds a minute, and its effective range is 300 yards."
His eyes swept over the line of recruits, taking in their various expressions - some eager, others nervous. And when he knew he had their undivided attention, Captain Fray turned so he was facing downrange, bringing the stock of the rifle firmly to his shoulder.
BANG!
The sound of Captain Fray's rifle shot rang out across the range, the echo bouncing off the distant mountains as the recruits watched in awe. The way he handled the weapon, so confidently and with such precision, was a sight to behold. The bullet struck true, dead center of the target. The recruits knew that they had much to learn from this fox who had seen more battles than any of them had days in their life.
One by one, they approached the rack, each selecting a rifle with a mix of excitement and unease. The cool steel of the barrels and the smooth finish of the wood stocks whispered promises of power and destruction. Dax picked his weapon with a sense of purpose, the weight of his family's legacy in every movement. Sam's hands trembled slightly as he hefted his own rifle, the gravity of the moment not lost on him.
The captain's instructions were clear and concise, each word measured and precise. They listened intently as he explained the proper way to load the weapon, the importance of not letting the powder overload the chamber, the need to tamp it down firmly, otherwise you've turned your rifle into a pipe bomb. Some of the recruits, eager to prove themselves, loaded their rifles hastily, only to be called out and made to step away from the line, while the others who poured the right amount were aloud to stay to fire their rifles.
"Take aim!" Captain Fray shouted, his voice cutting through the anticipatory silence like a saber. Every recruit's rifle snapped up, the cold steel pointing downrange to the targets that seemed so far away despite their proximity. The muscles in Dax's arms tightened as he braced himself, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Sam's heart raced as he took in a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling hands.
"FIRE!"
The volley of rifle shots rang out in unison, a deafening roar that sent a shockwave through the training ground. The thick gray smoke from the gunpowder enveloped the area, obscuring the targets for a brief moment. The air was thick with the acrid scent of spent gunpowder, and the echoes of the shots reverberated through the canyon walls, a testament to the raw power in the recruits' hands. As the smoke began to clear, the recruits' eyes darted to the target, searching for signs of their impact.
Through the haze, the distinct thwack of two bullets hitting the center of the target could be heard. Dax and Sam's eyes locked onto the bullseye, their rifles still smoking, their chests heaving with the exertion of the moment. The rest of the recruits had done well, but it was clear that these two had a natural affinity for the weaponry. Captain Fray's expression was one of pride, but also a hint of wariness. He knew that such skill in the hands of the young and untested could be both a gift and a curse.
"Sterling and Davis may stay for a second shot, the rest of you can bugger off to the back!"
The recruits parted, their whispers of admiration and envy trailing off as they retreated to the rear of the line. Dax and Sam took a step forward, their eyes locked on the target that now bore the proud marks of their first volley. The tension was palpable as they reloaded, the clink of metal against metal a rhythmic beat that matched the pounding in their chests. The world around them seemed to fade away as they focused solely on the task at hand.
"Take aim," Captain Fray barked, his eyes gleaming with something akin to excitement. Dax and Sam complied, the stocks of their rifles nestled into their shoulders, the barrels pointed unwaveringly towards the target. Their breathing synchronized, the only sound between them the quiet click of their hammers being cocked back.
"FIRE!"
The recruits behind them waited as Captain Fray turned his mount and rode over to the target. He studied it carefully, finding it rather hard to spot who hit the bull's eye again. After a closer inspection, the captain turned and returned to the two. Both Dax and Sam were eager to hear who had the better skill.
"Well, lads," Captain Fray said, his expression unreadable as he looked at them over his muzzle, "It seems you're both natural shots."
Sam's chest swelled with pride, his eyes never leaving the fox's stern gaze.
"Thank you, Sir. My father taught me to shoot, sir," he said, his voice steady despite the racing thoughts in his head.
"Back home in Ireland, we had to protect our sheep from poachers and wolves."
Sam's voice was steady, his eyes never leaving Captain Fray's. The fox's expression remained unchanged, but his eyes searched the Irish wolf's soul, looking for any sign of doubt or fear. And when he found none, his smile grew slightly.
"Good," Captain Fray said, his voice gruff yet somehow gentle before turning to the Texan by Sam's side.
"Sterling?"
"Same, Sir, I have been shooting rifles since I was boy," Dax responded with a salute, his voice as steady as the hand that held his saluting hand. His eyes remained locked on the captain's, not a flicker of doubt or regret in his gaze.
"I see," Captain Fray said, his smile fading as he studied Dax. But then, the captain asked something that made the fur on the back of Sam's neck stand on end.
"Have either one of you ever killed a man?"
The question hung in the air, thick and heavy like a storm cloud pregnant with rain. Sam felt a chill run down his spine. He had faced danger before, but the thought of taking a life was foreign to him. Hunting for food, protecting his family's herd from predators, that was one thing. But the cold, calculated taking of another life was something else entirely.
"Sir, no, I haven't," Sam finally managed to croak out, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears. His heart pounded in his chest; a wild animal trapped in a cage of his own making.
Captain Fray's gaze lingered on him, his eyes unreadable, before finally shifting to Dax. The silver wolf's expression remained stoic; his jaw set firmly as he spoke.
"And what about you, Sterling?"
At that moment, Fray was starting to wish he didn't ask when Dax looked him straight in the eye, an almost gleeful smirk playing across his muzzle.
"I've killed six Mexicans, sir," the Texan said with a cold, flat certainty that made the fur on Sam's neck stand on end.
"But those dirty sons of bitches deserved it for what they did at the Alamo."
Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. Dax's smile was as chilling as a winter's gale, and his eyes glinted with a feral light that spoke of a violence and hatred that was alien to Sam's very being. The Irish wolf felt a sudden chill, his thoughts racing. Was this what his friend was? A killer, filled with such a deep-seated anger that it could justify the taking of lives?
"Is that so, Mi Amigo?"
The sudden voice startled Dax, his smug expression faltering slightly as a deep baritone broke through the tension. Turning to the owner of the voice, Dax felt his blood run cold as he took in the form of a towering, grey-furred wolf with piercing golden eyes and a stern countenance. Captain King Guerrero had happened by the lesson, his eyes narrowed as they bore into Dax's very soul. The air grew heavy with the weight of unspoken accusations, the very ground seeming to tremble beneath their collective gazes.
"And what of those like my father, who served beside Senor Crockett and Senor Huston?"
The words from Captain Guerrero were like a knife cutting through the tension. His voice was steady, tinted with a noticeably thick accent, yet it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken words. The recruits around them had gone silent, the only sounds the distant echoes of the earlier shots.
Dax swallowed hard, his mind racing. He knew the history, knew that Captain Guerrero's father had indeed fought against the very men he'd just vilified. The fur on the back of his neck bristled, and he felt the heat of a hundred eyes on him. He knew he'd crossed a line, but his pride was too great to let it show.
"Captain," he began, his voice thick with forced contrition, "I meant no disrespect to you or your family. I spoke out of turn."
While the words of apology left Dax's lips, his eyes remained as cold as the steel of the rifle he held.
"I'm sure you didn't, Sterling," Captain Guerrero said, his tone even and measured, his gaze never leaving the young wolf.
"But words have a way of revealing the truth, don't they?"
Captain Guerrero's words lingered in the air, his gaze drilling into Dax's very soul. With a curt nod to Captain Fray, the grey-furred wolf turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the academy. The silence that followed was deafening, the recruits holding their collective breath, unsure of what to do next.
But it was Dax who broke the silence, his voice a low, barely-there whisper, just loud enough for Sam's keen ears to catch.
"Fucking greaser."
Later that day, Dax and the other recruits were lining up for final inspection. Sam, still feeling really uneasy around Dax after hearing about the Texan's hatred for the Spanish made him keep his distance.
Dax stood ready as Captain Fray looked him over, his eyes scanning the recruit's outfit. Buttons were in order, hat was straight, and best of all, there was no signs of dirt on his boots. The Texan had passed inspection. However, Sam failed due to having a small smudge of dirt on his pants. And so for punishment, the Irish wolf was put on guard duty.
After nearly an hour, Sam's feet were practically screaming at him to take a break. He was famished, his stomach growling like an angry bear. But his training had taught him discipline, and he knew that hunger was a small price to pay for the honor of serving his country. The rhythmic pounding of his boots on the path was a silent mantra, a promise that he would not waver in his duties.
But, as he turned to walk back to the other side of the entrance way, he found his path blocked by the very woman who had occupied his thoughts day and night - Terra Guerrero. She looked lost, her amber eyes scanning the bustling academy grounds with a furrowed brow.
"Excuse me, Sir," she spoke up as she procured a folded piece of paper.
"Could you perhaps tell me where I might find, um...Thomas Jonathan Jackson?"
Terra's voice was like a soft summer rain, a gentle interruption to the rhythm of his march. And while Sam did not wish to be rude, wanted nothing more than to stop, to talk to her, Captain Fray's eyes bore into his back like the sun through a magnifying glass. And so, with great reluctance, Sam walked away from Terra, his heart heavy with the weight of his duty. He knew that to serve his country was to put aside his personal desires, even for a moment.
Terra, however, did not see it this way. Her eyes narrowed and her cheeks flushed with indignation as she watched Sam march away. The audacity! No man had ever ignored her, especially not a cadet from West Point. She had half a mind to report him to her father, Captain Guerrero, and have him expelled on the spot for his lack of respect.
"You are very rude and have no manners at all," she began ranting to Sam, who remained silent and carried on walking.
"I shall tell my father about this! I'll shall even tell the directors of West Point about this! Good day, SIR!"
Terra stormed away, her auburn tail flicking in anger, leaving Sam standing there, feeling a mix of regret and determination. He watched her until she disappeared into the main building, his heart racing. He knew he had to make things right. But as he turned to go after her, Captain Fray's voice echoed in his mind.
"Cadet Davis, front and center!"
Sam's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the authoritative bark of Captain Fray's voice. He had hoped to catch Terra before she reached her destination, but it seemed his punishment for his earlier transgression had come to an end sooner than expected as the older fox smiled.
"You're relieved of guard duty."
The relief that washed over him was palpable, and he didn't dare question his luck. Instead, he sprinted after Terra, his boots echoing on the cobblestone pathways.
"MISS! MISS!"
Sam's heart was racing as he chased Terra down the cobblestone pathways, his voice echoing in the cool evening air. She had stopped in front of the main building, her fur ruffled and her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and embarrassment.
"Miss Guerrero, I'm sorry," Sam panted as he caught up to her, his sides heaving from the sprint.
"Please, let me explain."
The words tumbled out of Sam's mouth as he reached Terra, his breath coming in short gasps. Her eyes searched his, looking for any hint of deceit or insincerity. But all she found was genuine regret and a desperation to make things right.
"Miss Guerrero, please," he said again, his voice softer this time. "I'm sorry. It's just that Captain Fray was watching, and I didn't want to get into any more trouble than I was already in."
Her eyes searched his, looking for any hint of dishonesty, but she saw only sincerity. With a huff, Terra nodded her head slightly.
"Oh, uh, well I suppose...that is alright," Terra replied, her anger dissipating like mist in the sun.
The smile that blossomed on Sam's face was like a ray of sunshine, and Terra couldn't help but return it. It was the start of something beautiful, something that neither of them could have predicted amidst the chaos of their military training. Terra had never met anyone quite like Sam before, his fiery spirit and unshakable resolve a stark contrast to the prejudiced whispers that often filled the hallowed halls of West Point.
The days grew into weeks, and their stolen moments together grew in frequency. Terra had a way of making Sam feel seen, like he truly belonged in a place where his accent and heritage were often the butt of cruel jokes. Their bond grew stronger as they shared stories of their families, their dreams, and their fears for the future. Terra's fiery spirit seemed to burn away the shadows of doubt that often clouded Sam's mind.
But it was not just Terra's company that Sam craved; the thrill of the academy's training was intoxicating. He threw himself into every challenge with a fervor that surprised even Captain Fray. The physical exertion of drills and the mental acuity required for strategy sessions were a welcome distraction from his tumultuous feelings towards Dax. The friendship that had once seemed so unshakable now felt as fragile as glass.
One evening, as he strolled through the streets of the quaint town adjacent to West Point, Sam's ears picked up the harsh tones of a heated exchange. His heart quickened as he recognized Terra's voice, muffled by the sound of jeers and taunts. He turned the corner to find her standing firm against Dax and a new recruit, Cain Addams, a black wolf with piercing red eyes, their combined presence a stark contrast to Terra's elegance as the silver wolf gave Terra a push and she nearly stumbled, but remained standing.
"Take your filth and get out of my sight!" he shouted at her, his voice loud and demanding.
The sight of Dax's aggressive posture sent a cold wave of anger through Sam's veins. The silver wolf's words were laced with the same venom that had marred their friendship, and Cain's malicious laughter only served to fuel the fire burning in Sam's chest. Without a second thought, he rushed forward, the shovel he'd been carrying from his latest punishment swinging through the air with surprising force.
"Yeah," Cain laughed joining in on the verbal assault.
"We don't need Mexicans cluttering up our streets and ruining our schools. Why don't you go back to where you came from?"
The words were like a slap in the face, and Terra's eyes blazed with a fury that surprised even herself. But before she could say anything, there was a sudden commotion.
WHACK! POW!
The sound of impact resonated through the night air, and she watched as Dax and Cain crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain as Sam stood over them, his eyes burning with a fiery determination she hadn't seen before, a shovel still clutched tightly in his hand.
"Are you alright?"
The answer Sam got was not one he was expecting, but he was not about to complain. Before he could even react, Terra threw her arms around his neck before pressing her lips to his in a passionate kiss that took both of them by surprise. It was as if all the tension and anger from the past few moments had coalesced into a fiery embrace that seemed to set the very air alight.
Unfortunately, not an hour later, the air was very tense as Sam and Terra, along with King and Captain Fray, watched as Dax and Cain stood at attention before the stern figure of Major Jackson, a burly grizzly whose eyes eyes were like steel, unyielding and uncompromising as he held the incriminating report in his hand given to him by an eyewitness who had seen Cain and Dax breaking rules and what happened in town.
"Skipping classes, drinking on school grounds and… being caught attacking an unarmed civilian! And the daughter of Captain Guerrero no less!"
Jackson looked at the silver and black wolves.
"This is enough to have you both expelled from West Point and through in jail!"
Major Jackson's voice was a thunderclap in the stillness of the office, and Dax and Cain felt the full force of his wrath. Their eyes darted to the floor, unable to meet the Major's gaze. The gravity of their actions weighed heavily on their shoulders, the smirks from earlier replaced by looks of genuine regret and fear.
"But..."
Dax's protest was swiftly silenced by Major Jackson's firm hand, the grizzly's grip tightening on the report as he raised a furry eyebrow at the silver wolf.
"Sir, I can—"
Dax's words were cut off by the sharp bark of Major Jackson's voice.
"Silence, Sterling! Your actions speak louder than any excuses you could possibly muster!"
Jackson's words hung in the air, the echo of his bellow resonating in the hearts of the two wayward recruits. He took a moment, his heavy breaths the only sound in the room, before continuing.
"But lucky for you, Cadet Davis and Miss Guerrero have requested disciplinary actions to try and correct your attitudes. If you fail to improve, you are out on your asses."
With those words, Major Jackson dismissed Dax and Cain with a wave of his hand. The two recruits looked at each other, knowing that they had dodged a bullet, or perhaps a hanging noose. They had two weeks to prove themselves, and it was a chance they weren't going to waste.
Dax walked away from the office with a heavy heart, his thoughts racing. He knew that his friendship with Sam was in tatters, and he wasn't sure if it could ever be repaired. But as he locked eyes with Sam, he couldn't help but feel a spark of hope. The Irish wolf's fiery spirit had come to Terra's defense, and Dax realized that maybe there was more to him than he'd given credit for.
For the next two weeks, Dax and Cain worked hard from cleaning stables and working in the mess hall. Dax had never felt so low in his life, and Cain, though quieter than usual, was equally sullen. The two of them had grown closer during their punishment, finding a strange camaraderie in their shared fate. But it was clear that Dax was the one who truly regretted his actions. He had seen the disappointment in Captain Fray's eyes, the anger in Terra's, and the sadness in Sam's. It was a sobering realization, and it forced him to confront the prejudices that had been festering within him.
One day, as he walked the courtyard, Dax saw Sam and Terra beneath a tree, laughing together. The sight stung, but instead of anger, he felt something else—determination. He approached them slowly, his heart racing as he felt the weight of their gazes upon him. The air was thick with unspoken words and the unresolved tension from their altercation in town. But when Terra looked up and met his eyes, her expression softened ever so slightly. Perhaps there was a chance for redemption, after all.
Needless to say, not an ill word was exchanged as a new bound grew between the three...only to be tested again in the years to come.
West Point, New York, April 12, 1861
The entire academy was in an uproar. America had just started a civil war. Colonel Robert E. Lee had resigned from the Union Army as Virginia voted to secede from the Union and joined the rebel forces of the growing Confederacy. Major Jackson also joined the Confederacy. Dax and Sam, who had become like brothers over the many years they spent together at West Point could not believe that they were going to be on opposite sides of the war. While the Irish wolf remained loyal to the Union, the Texan joined the rebels.
Max Fray and Martin Wilde had also joined the Confederacy, taking Kayla and three-year-old, Nick Wilde with them back to Fredericksburg, Virginia.
Kyle "Mooch" Jones, Doug "Salty" Smith and Tyler "Shakey" Wilson, stayed with the Union. Caleb Donald also stayed with the Union along with his classmate and right hand man, Mason Canis, who was in a relationship with a lovely vixen named, Diane Foxington.
As Caleb sat alone in a small church, he looked up and began to pray. “Oh Lord, what has America done to be divided? I know that everything happens for a reason, but what ever that reason is, I only ask that you will watch over my friends who have joined the Confederacy,” the handsome shepherd said. “I ask that you shine your light on my friends, let them know that they are missed and are loved. This is all I ask. Amen.”