Prairie Kid drove his spade into the ground and it stopped dead. He wanted the largest homestead on the open prairie, built with his own hands, but the land refused him. The sod fought back. Thick roots had gripped this dirt for a hundred years. His blade barely scratched it. He leaned his weight on the handle. The spade bent. His palms burned under two split blisters. All morning he had chopped at one small square. He had not turned a single clean furrow. Around him, tall wheat swayed on ground he did not plant. It had grown wild, dense and golden, and it mocked him. Where roots were soft, they were his enemy. Where he needed them broken, they held like iron. Without broken ground, he had nowhere to plant. Nowhere to lay a foundation. His whole plan sat frozen behind this one wall of grass and root. He threw the spade down and sat in the dirt. Then he heard heavy breathing. A huge shape stood at the edge of the wild wheat. A bison, taller than his shoulder, watched him with one dark eye. Shaggy hair hung across its neck. Its horns curved short and thick. It did not run. It chewed a mouthful of grass and pawed the sod. Its hoof tore the tough ground open in one easy stroke. Prairie Kid stared at the torn strip. His spade had failed there all morning. The animal broke it without trying. He rose slowly. He kept his hands low and open. "Easy," he said. "Easy, now." He had no plow harness. He had rope, though, coiled by his water jug. He fetched it and looped it wide, the way he had seen men handle oxen back home. The bison let him come close. It smelled the rope and snorted, but stood. He worked the loop over its heavy head and shoulders. His heart slammed. If it bolted, it could drag him through the field. It did not bolt. It shifted its weight and waited. He tied his bent spade sideways to the rope, blade down, a rough and ugly plow. Then he clicked his tongue and pulled forward. The bison stepped. The rope went tight. The blade bit into the sod and this time it did not stop. A long black furrow opened behind them. Dirt curled up wet and dark. Root snapped. Prairie Kid walked backward, guiding, laughing out loud in the empty field. By dusk he had turned more ground than a week of digging could give. Bare, plantable soil stretched in rows across the grass. But the bison was strong, and it was not tame. It stood in his fresh field, still roped, watching him with that dark eye. He had his broken ground now. He also had a wild animal he did not know how to keep, feed, or control through the long work ahead.