Walking Wolf

by Nancy A. Collins

  I staggered out of my tipi to find Medicine Dog waiting on me, puffing on his pipe. “So. You aren’t dead,” he said, by way of greeting. “That is good to know.”

  “Where’s Flood Moon? Where is my wife?”

  “She is gone.”

  “Gone? Where did she go?”

  Medicine Dog shrugged. “I do not know. She and Small Bear were very scared. “They left together last night. They thought they had killed you.”

  “Small Bear? Flood Moon is with Small Bear?” I could feel the anger swell inside me. My head still ached and I did not want to hear what Medicine Dog was telling me.

  My best friend. The woman I loved. Both had betrayed me. And worse, they had robbed me of my pride. I had been made to look a fool in the eyes of the tribe. Such a crime against my honor could not go unpunished. My distress was quite obvious. Medicine Dog put aside his pipe and tried to calm me.

  “My son, do not let your anger drive you to do something worse than foolish.”

  My head throbbed like a war drum and I doubled over, pushing at the sides of my skull to keep them from exploding outward. My anger was fueling the pain inside my head, forcing my body into its true-form. Medicine Dog stepped away from me. I had the bloodlust on me and he knew words would be useless.

  Snarling like a beast, I fled the camp. I had the scent of Flood Moon and Small Bear, and I was determined to hunt them down and make them pay for their treachery.

  It did not take me long to catch up with them. Like most vargr, I am a tireless runner.

  The rage burning deep inside me kept me from growing weary. Although they had a whole night and day’s head start on horseback, I found them not long after dark.

  I saw their fire long before I saw them. They were alone except for each other and their horses, huddled against the coming night. Careful to keep upwind of their mounts, least they catch my scent and alert Small Bear, I circled their camp, listening to them as they talked.

  I could tell from their words and actions that they had been lovers for some time. Small Bear sat with his rifle at the ready, Flood Moon pressed close to him. The sight of my best friend sharing an intimacy with my wife that I myself had never known stoked my anger even higher, until everything I saw was covered by a blood red scrim.

  One of the ponies whickered nervously. Small Bear tightened his grip on his gun, peering into the dark beyond the fire as he got to his feet.

  Flood Moon looked up at her lover, knuckling the sleep from her eyes. “Small Bear—what is wrong?”

  “There is something out there.”

  I came in low, tackling him from behind, snarling like a rabid wolf. Small Bear’s rifle discharged as he hit the ground. Flood Moon screamed out her lover’s name, driving the knife she’d kept hidden in her blanket into my right side. I yowled in pain and grabbed at the blade, giving Small Bear the chance to roll free and get back on his feet.

  Unsheathing his own knife, he made to drive it into my heart. Growling, I knocked the weapon from his hands and pounced on him as a coyote would a prairie dog, my teeth sinking deep into his soft, hairless throat.

  I don’t want people reading this to think the fight was one-sided. Small Bear was a strong, swift brave, and he did not surrender easily to death. Still, I tore at his struggling body with my talons, gleefully ripping his bowels free of his stomach. Small Bear’s liver, glistening brown-red in the campfire, lay on the prairie grass. Without pausing to think, I snapped the tender morsel up and devoured it on the spot.

  Wiping my muzzle on my forearm, I turned my yellow gaze to Flood Moon, who stood transfixed, staring in horror at the ruined remains of her lover. Smiling, I plucked her knife from my side as if it were no more bothersome than a thorn.

  “Wife,” I said, holding up the dripping blade. “Is this how you greet your husband?”

  She gave a sob of fear and turned to flee, but I was too fast for her. I grabbed her by her braids, wrapping them around my forepaws so her face was within biting distance. Her eyes were huge with fear, and the smell of her terror radiated like heat from the sun. Grinning, I licked her face with my tongue, laughing as she shuddered and began to cry.

  I took her there, beside the cooling body of her lover. She screamed and whimpered and pleaded with me repeatedly as I raped her—for that was what I did, I don’t deny it. But all her begging did was fuel my desire to punish her even further. By the time my lust had run its course, Flood Moon bled from dozens of deep bites and scratches on her breasts, belly, buttocks and thighs. Sated at last, I pulled myself from her quivering, sobbing body and collapsed beside her in a deep slumber.

  I awoke to find Flood Moon astride me, ready to plunge her knife into my chest. I’ll never forget looking up into the face of the woman who, until that day, I had loved with all my life and heart, her features rendered almost unrecognizable by the bruises I’d inflicted on her. The hatred that burned in her eyes was all-consuming. She screamed in triumph as the knife sank up to the hilt in my chest.

  My first reaction was a primal one—without thinking, I swiped at her as she struggled to pull the blade free for a second strike, my talons sinking into the soft flesh of her jugular. Flood Moon clutched her throat, a rattling gasp coming from her lips. I had sliced open her windpipe.

  Struggling to my feet, I tugged at the knife wedged in my ribs. I fully expected to die, but to my surprise, after an initial jet of blood, my wound sealed itself. The same could not be said for Flood Moon, who lay writhing on the ground at my feet, blood spurting from between her fingers with every beat of her heart.

  I felt as if I had awoken from a bad dream only to find myself trapped within a nightmare. My head no longer ached, and I was empty of the anger that had driven me to such a horrible end. I looked around me as if in a daze. When I saw the mutilated body of Small Bear, I cried out in horror. Even as I closed my eyes to what I had done, my memory replayed how I had brutally violated the only woman I had ever loved. When I opened them again, I saw that Flood Moon, in her last moments, had crawled over to Small Bear and collapsed atop his body.

  I buried them there, side by side, on the lone prairie. I wept as I dug their common grave with the knife Flood Moon had planted in my heart, mourning as much for myself as for my victims, for I could never return to my tribe after what I had done.

  I grew physically ill at the thought of how Eight Clouds Rising, Medicine Dog, Quanah, Peta Nocona and the others would react once they learned of my crimes. Flood Moon and Small Bear had wounded my pride, but the punishment I had meted out to them was far beyond all measure, even by Comanche standards. And, to make matters worse, I had compounded my sin by breaking the tribal taboo against cannibalism.

  I was ashamed and frightened by what I had done. I had lost control of my baser nature and allowed it to revel in the pain of others. I felt sick to my soul. I decided I needed to know more about my strange powers and the beast inside me, least I lose control again and harm someone else dear to me. There was only one way I could learn more about myself. I decided it was finally time for me to go into the White world.

  Chapter Three

  My decision to abandon the way of the Comanche was not an easy one. Even though, technically, I was one of their number, I had no reason to love or trust Whites. First of all, it was Whites who killed my natural family. I’d learned that before I knew how to walk, since Eight Clouds made a point of telling me, early on, the story of how I came to be his son. Secondly, as a member of the Wasp Riders, I had ample occasion to see how treacherous Whites could be. They had broken numerous treaties and waged war against the Comanche in a cowardly fashion for years. And third, it was the Whites who were responsible for the epidemics of cholera, diphtheria, influenza, measles, smallpox and syphilis that spread through the tribe like brushfire, claiming brave, elder, squaw and papoose alike.

  The Whites seemed stricken with a craziness the Comanche—and all other Indians—were at a loss to comprehend. Their buffalo hunters killed more than they could possi
bly eat in a lifetime. Their farmers wrapped the land in barbed wire and claimed the dirt below and the sky above as their property. Still, for madmen, they were privy to immense power. The iron horses and the buffalo guns that could kill from a mile away were truly impressive. So, was it not possible they might possess knowledge as to how I might better control my wolf-self?

  I knew better than to ride up to the nearest settlement and expect to be welcomed with open arms. What with my long dark hair and sun-browned skin, I looked far more Indian than White. I was likely to catch a bullet between the eyes before I had a chance to dismount. Besides, my English was pretty bad—in fact, nonexistent. No, if I was going to introduce myself to White society, it was going to have to be through an intermediary of some kind.

  A week or more after I had voluntarily banished myself, I came upon a black man traveling alone across the prairie, driving a wagon pulled by oxen. When he saw my pony approaching, he reined his team to a halt and pulled out a rifle. He rested it across his knees, watching me cautiously. As I drew nearer, I recognized him as the man called Buffalo-Face, who traded on occasion with the Wasp Riders, swapping rifles, ammunition and liquor for ponies.

  “Good day, Buffalo-Face,” I said, speaking in the mixture of Spanish and Comanche dialect that was reserved for dealing with traders.

  He squinted at me and spat a stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth. He was a big, powerfully built man with black skin that gleamed like polished stone. A mass of dark, nappy wool hung to his shoulders, which was the source of his name.

  “You Comanche, ain’t ya?”

  “I am Walking Wolf of the Penateka.”

  Buffalo-Face’s shoulders relaxed. “Walking Wolf? You’re Eight Clouds’s boy, am I right? What you doin’ way the hell out here, son? You out scoutin’ buffalo?”

  “I’m looking for Whites.”

  “You on the warpath?”

  “No. I want to go into the White Man’s world and learn how it works.”

  Buffalo-Face spat another streamer of tobacco juice, narrowly missing the rump of his lead ox. “Why the hell would you want to do something like that?”

  “Because I am White, too.”

  Buffalo-Face squinted harder, leaning forward a bit. “Damned if it ain’t so! You are White under all that dirt and paint! Imagine that.”

  “Will you take me to the Whites, Buffalo-Face?”

  Buffalo-Face frowned and rubbed his chin for a spell, occasionally giving me a look from under his knitted brow. After a minute he shrugged. “Son, you’re a fool to ask me, and I’m an even bigger fool for sayin’ yes. Hitch your pony to the back of the cart there and ride up front with me. I could stand the company. It gets pretty lonesome out here with no one but Goodness and Mercy here to talk to,” he said, gesturing to the yoked oxen.

  Although the idea of riding on anything besides a pony was alien to me, I did as he asked and joined him on the wagon seat. The oxen did not move nearly as quickly as horses, but they plodded along without protest or halting.

  During the course of our first day together, Buffalo-Face told me things about himself. I learned that he had been born a slave in some place called Alabama, that his mother had been raped at the age of twelve by the white overseer of the plantation she served on, and that he had killed a man—the same overseer who’d fathered him—in order to escape when he was sixteen. I also learned that he had left behind a wife and two, possibly three, children, in a place called Philadelphia.

  Buffalo-Face shook his head and spat a streamer of tobacco juice, drowning a bluebottle fly perched on Goodness’ left rump. “I’ll be damned if I can figger out why you want to get yourself turned White. Sure, they’re your own kind, but you’re as much a stranger to their ways as any full-blooded Injun. Hell, I spent the first sixteen years of my life doin’ my best to put distance ’tween me and White folk. I thought once I was free, things would be different for me.

  “Well, things may have been better up North, but they weren’t no different. I was still a nigger far as they was concerned. I could never get my wife to understand that bein’ free of the plantation weren’t enough for me. I didn’t escape Alabama so’s I could spend the rest of my life tryin’ to be like them.

  “Six years ago I come out West. I’m still a nigger to folks out here, but at least I can spit without hittin’ one of ’em.” He then demonstrated this statement, yet again. “I can be my own boss and do as I please. If White folks could look inside my head and see how much I hate ’em, I’d be hangin’ from the nearest cottonwood faster’n a jackrabbit. So instead of shootin’ Whites and burnin’ their homes to the ground, I get my satisfaction by peddlin’ guns to the Injuns. Way I sees it, they got as much reason as me to be fond of Whites.”

  That night we set up camp. Buffalo-Face served up beans, dry bread and hot coffee. I’d never had coffee before, and I promptly spat it out. Buffalo-Face laughed as I grimaced and wiped my mouth with handfuls of grass. “Give yourself a week, son, and you’ll be suckin’ it up like it was mother’s milk!”

  I liked Buffalo-Face. Outside of a Mexican boy stolen from a ranchero during one of our winter encampments, he was the only non-Comanche I had ever spent any time with. I wondered if I should tell him I was a skinwalker, but I remembered Medicine Dog’s warning concerning who I showed my true skin to. Buffalo-Face wasn’t a White, but he wasn’t an Indian, either. I fell asleep, pondering the question of whether I should tell him more about myself.

  When I awoke, the coffee pot was on the fire but Buffalo-Face was nowhere to be seen. I found him down by the creek, stripped to his waist, washing his face and upper body. His muscular back was covered from shoulder to waist by scars that ran from rib to rib. The wounds were very old, some of them five or six deep in places. I watched him for a few more seconds, then returned to the camp.

  When Buffalo-Face came back, he had put his shirt back on and was shrugging into his braces. He bent to pour coffee into a dented tin cup. “You sure you want to go ahead with this plan of yours? You seen the stripes on my back when I was washing at the creek. That’s what White folk had to offer me.”

  “Medicine Dog told me that Whites are crazy. Is this true?”

  Buffalo-Face nodded and swallowed his coffee, grimacing—whether from the bitterness of the brew or his memories was impossible to say. “That they are. But not fall-down, foam-at-the-mouth crazy. Whites are singular creatures. They ain’t part of nothing but themselves, not even other Whites. Mebbe that’s what makes ’em act so snake-bit.

  “Let me give you a bit of free advice, son. Whatever you do, always watch your back. Whites may hate niggers, Injuns, kikes and chinks—but that don’t mean they love their own kind. If they can find a way to get what they want and leave you bleedin’ and nekkid in the snow, they will. Whites ain’t out for no one but themselves. Bear that in mind whenever you’re dealin’ with ’em—don’t matter if they’re a man of the cloth, an old spinster lady or a young’un in knee pants. Whatever you do, don’t trust ’em any farther than you can throw ’em.”

  I spent most of the next four weeks learning to speak English—at least talk it good enough to get myself understood. Buffalo-Face was astonished at how quickly I picked up the lingo. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I have a natural aptitude for learning languages. At last count, I’ve become fluent in thirty-seven, including Swahili, Mongolian and Aborigine.

  On the second week on the trail together, we were drinking hot coffee and studying the stars overhead. I’ll always remember that night—how the air smelled of ox dung and coffee grounds, the sound of tobacco juice sizzling in the campfire. I was enjoying the best of both worlds there—Indian and White—without knowing it. I knew there was no way it was going to last forever, but I had no idea how long it’d be before I would know such peace again.

  Suddenly Buffalo-Face looks at me and says, “Well, if you’re so goddamned set on bein’ part of the White Man’s world, you’ve got to have you a White Man’s name. W
alkin’ Wolf might be a mighty fine name for a Comanche, but it ain’t no kind of name for a White Man.” He worked his chaw real thoughtful for a second. “You wouldn’t happen to know your real name, would you? No? In that case, we’ll have to come up with a name on our own. Wouldn’t be the first time a man’s named himself out here … Let’s see now … William’s a good name. But you’re too young for a serious first name like that. How about Will? Naw … You look more like a Billy to me. Billy. Yeah, that sounds good! But Billy what? Smith and Jones are popular, but not exactly what I’d call distinctive. You want yourself a handle that folks’ll remember …” Buffalo-Face’s bloodshot eye wandered about the camp, his gaze finally settling on the cookfire. He grinned suddenly, displaying tobacco-stained teeth. “That’s it! Skillet! Billy Skillet! How that sound to you, Walkin’ Wol—I mean, Billy?”

  I gave it a thought, rolling the name around on my tongue for effect. Billy Skillet. Damned if it didn’t feel good in my mouth. “I like it.”

  Buffalo-Face let out with a laugh like a wild ass in heat. “Then that’s who you are, by damn! Billy Skillet! And don’t let no one tell you otherwise!”

  So that’s now I got my White name. Here I was, barely fifteen years old, and I already had me three—possibly four—names. That’s as many, or more, than a Comanche brave gets in a whole lifetime.

  At the end of four weeks, we’d finally come within passing distance of a White settlement big enough to think it was a town. Buffalo-Face took me up on a rise that overlooked the slap-dash collection of wood houses and dirt streets.

  “That there’s Vermilion, Texas. White folks live there. Few Meskins, too, but mostly Whites. You’ll excuse me if I don’t walk you down to the city limits. I don’t do no tradin’ with White folk in Texas—except for the Spaniards. They’re pure out-and-out businessmen, them Spanish. Don’t give a rat’s ass what color a man’s skin is, long as his coins are silver or gold. Don’t care if you’re selling liquor and guns to Injuns, either. Man’s business is a man’s business.”