Running Wolf

by Jenna Kernan

  Running Wolf made note of this, wondering if she might actually escape without a horse.

  Snow Raven continued speaking, not noticing her captor’s growing unease. “Later I caught my own horse and trained her. That was when my father gave me a bow and taught me how to shoot, track and hunt.”

  “An unusual education for a woman. What does your husband think?”

  Running Wolf leaned forward, waiting for her reply. Turtle Rattler was asking all the things that he wished to ask but could not. To question was to show an interest that he must not have.

  But his apparent disinterest was a lie because nothing captivated him more than Snow Raven.

  “I have no husband.”

  So who was the man who protected her? Bright Arrow, the son of the chief. Was this her intended? Had he stood with her wrapped in a buffalo robe before her father’s lodge, exchanging secret touches and love words? Now his hands were in fists.

  The shaman nodded. “And you prefer men, their company, I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are not attracted to women. In other words, you enjoy a man’s touch?”

  She blushed and dropped her chin in a way that Running Wolf found irresistible. He wanted to move to the other side of the circle and gather her up in his arms. Of course, he stayed where he was. But now he noticed how Turtle Rattler’s captive sat, close to the shaman’s left and slightly behind him. It was the place of an honored wife. He quirked a brow. Perhaps this lowly Crow did not only keep the shaman’s lodge?

  Turtle Rattler spoke again. “You are a maiden. Are you not?”

  She blinked at him in astonishment and nodded.

  “And your horse. It is the gray one you rode in upon.”

  She nodded again.

  “And you have made a dress of rabbit hides, and when someone tried to take your rabbits, you knocked her to the ground. That is why they call you Kicking Rabbit. Is that right?”

  “I have not made such a dress.”

  Turtle Rattler frowned.

  “But I have set several traps.”

  “Ah, well, then you will knock someone down. One blow. Not two.” He made it sound like a warning.

  She stared at him with a mixture of wonder and apprehension.

  “What do you say to the charge that you are a witch?”

  “I am not.”

  “That you are possessed by evil spirits?”

  “I am not possessed.”

  Turtle Rattler turned to Running Wolf. “She is telling the truth as she knows it. She is a woman, not a witch. Maybe that is dangerous enough.” Turtle Rattler looked back at her. “She is unusual, surely. And I see that her path will not be an easy one. She could have lived like other women but she did not. At first she did this because it was best for her. Yesterday it was best for her grandmother. Tomorrow it will be best for many. But she will face hard choices. Like the one she has already made, choosing her love of another over her own safety. She will do this once more. But ultimately, she will choose the love of her own over the love of her people.”

  “Never,” she said, and then placed both hands over her mouth and lowered her head in shame at her breech of good manners, but too late, for the denial was already spoken.

  “Did I say she is spirited? She is.” Turtle Rattler motioned for his pipe and Frog hurried to bring him the long pouch hanging from a peg from a lodge pole that held both pipe and tobacco in separate compartments. He spoke to Snow Raven now. “Also, the one you worry over? He is alive and will recover in time.”

  Her shoulders sagged in relief as Running Wolf’s tightened. He knew now who Turtle Rattler meant. The warrior. Not her husband. But he fought for her. Was that the love she would give up to aid her people? He hoped so. He did not want that one to have her.

  The shaman said he would be well in time. In good time or in time to come for her?

  Turtle Rattler spoke now to Running Wolf. “Take her back to your mother. Tonight I will speak to the people and tell them that she is no witch.”

  Running Wolf rose and thanked his host and then left the tepee. He had to turn to see if Snow Raven followed for her steps were so soundless. He wanted to ask her about Bright Arrow. But he forced himself to stay silent.

  If that warrior came for her, he would kill him. That would make her give up her love. Was that what the old shaman meant?

  Night had now come to the sky and the stars blazed bright. The moon that had illuminated their way yesterday now peeked up between two tepees, big and orange, but not quite full tonight.

  In the center of the village, the tribe assembled for the feast. The women who had tended the dog all day, roasting it over coals, still labored to turn the carcass. He headed toward the gathering, knowing they would know where to find his mother.

  Instead, he was intercepted by Red Hawk. Running Wolf prepared for another battle because this warrior would not be happy until his captive was dead. Running Wolf knew that if Red Hawk touched her, he planned to put him on his back, just as his captive had done.

  “What did Turtle Rattler decide?” asked Red Hawk.

  “He said she is no witch.”

  “Still an enemy. We should kill her now. We already have a bed of coals. We could roast her until her skin falls from her body like a horse shedding its winter coat.”

  “That is not how a woman is put to death.”

  “She fights like a warrior—let her die like one.”

  All male captives were tested by torture. It was expected, the ultimate trial of their endurance, bravery and spirit. Women were mostly neglected. They sometimes starved in lean times or were strangled if they were troublesome. But a woman had never been tortured, and that was not going to change tonight.

  “I must find my mother,” said Running Wolf.

  “I can take her to Ebbing Water. I know where she can be found.”

  “Not necessary.” Running Wolf captured Snow Raven’s arm and drew her away.

  When they were out of earshot she whispered to him, “Thank you.”

  He led her along until he was sure they were away from Red Hawk. Her thick hair brushed against the back of his hand like a caress. The sensation was arousing. He leaned toward her and inhaled, taking in the tantalizing scent of her clean skin.

  “Running Wolf?”

  He jumped at the sound of his name. He recognized the female voice and felt his heart sink. He released Snow Raven and turned to see a young girl, not quite a woman, hurrying toward him. She had glossy hair decorated with many strands of brass beads. Her eyes sloped down at the corners, making her look perpetually worried.

  She wore her most elaborately decorated dress. The entire top portion was covered with tiny white seed beads, sewn in even rows. Over the dress she wore a series of necklaces, each slightly longer than the last so they cascaded down the slope of her chest. This woman liked shiny, pretty things. Whoever married her would be forever trading for baubles to keep her content.

  He recalled with a jolt that her father, Iron Bear, had encouraged him to become one of her suitors and stupidly he had agreed. Now that he was face-to-face with Spotted Fawn he regretted his words. He wanted the chief’s favor. He just did not want his daughter.

  Spotted Fawn toyed with one long braid as she mooned up at him with shining dark eyes. He could not think of a single thing to say.

  Finally she spoke. “I am glad you are safe. Father tells me that you led our warriors with bravery and that we now have many new horses.”

  “Yes, the horses will be shown tonight.”

  “And I heard that you have taken a captive.” Spotted Fawn eyed Snow Raven with curiosity. Her voice dropped and she grasped his arm, cuddling against him. “Is she dangerous?”

  “She is a woman. All women are dangerous.”

 
Spotted Fawn laughed at this. “Buffalo Calf is telling everyone that she is a witch.”

  Buffalo Calf was Red Hawk’s wife and also the younger sister of the chief. Her words had weight. It was likely that her husband had asked her to tell the women, and he knew that if you said a thing, even a lie, enough times, people began to believe it. He thought he must set his mother out to repeat Turtle Rattler’s words.

  “Turtle Rattler will speak to us all tonight, but he said that she is just a woman. She is not to be touched.”

  He heard Snow Raven gasp. Only he and she knew that Turtle Rattler had not said that last part. And Running Wolf had not said that those were the shaman’s words. He had only made it seem so.

  “Turtle Rattler must have a reason for this. I will tell the others what you have said.”

  His thank-you sounded wooden to his ears. He wanted to find his mother. Wanted to be rid of this burdensome captive. Wanted to be alone with her.

  What was happening to him?

  “Will you share a platter with me?” asked Spotted Fawn.

  If it got rid of her, he would agree to almost anything.

  “Yes.”

  She grinned, and he saw that her smile was pretty enough. Why then did it light no fire in his belly? Why did he not yearn to touch her hair, her face, her neck?

  Spotted Fawn giggled and then skipped away like a child. Her father said she was a woman. Perhaps only her body was that of a woman, for she still seemed more like a child to him.

  He faced Snow Raven in the darkness cast by the moon’s shadow on the tepee to his right. The murmur of voices came from the center of the camp. Soon the feast would begin, and she must not be there in case the news that she was not a witch caused Red Hawk to cause her harm.

  “Go to the place where I saw you set your last trap. Sleep there tonight. Do not come back to my mother’s lodge until dawn.”

  “You trust me alone in the dark?”

  “I do not. But I do not trust Red Hawk, either. If enough believe his charge it will go badly for you. Do you wish to die?”

  “I have answered that.”

  He offered her a warning. “Our horses are more carefully guarded than the Crow’s.”

  He knew that her tribe’s horses might have been better guarded if most of the men had not been out scouting for sign of the Sioux.

  Running Wolf lifted her chin and stroked his thumb along the downy soft skin of her cheek. He wanted to bring her into his arms, feel her full breasts pressed tight to his hard body. Here in the darkness, none would see.

  He drew her in. Her soft body pressed to his. He heard her gasp, but she did not struggle. He wished he did not wear his war shirt. It was not the clothing made for holding a woman, but perhaps the right choice for holding an enemy. She stiffened for a moment and then she yielded, resting her head upon his chest. He tucked her beneath his arm and stroked the tangle of her hair.

  He pressed his lips to the top of her head in a kiss and spoke in a whisper. “The war chief of the Sioux cannot choose a captive. I do not know what is wrong with me.”

  “Nor I.”

  Did she mean she also did not know what was wrong with him or that she did not know why she let him hold her in the night?

  She sighed, her breath warm against his neck, her face tipped up to his. He knew that he could kiss her and that she would let him. But did she wish his touch or only wish a protector? The notion that she was willing to use him for his position soured him.

  He pushed her gently aside, turned her and gave a little push against her back. His fingers tingled and his flesh itched as he watched her vanish into the night.

  If she ran, he would find her.

  Chapter Seven

  Running Wolf attended the feast and danced with the men and listened to the stories of their latest triumph. Then he ate a great meal and thought of Snow Raven sitting alone in the dark. Was she eating what she had taken from their stores? Was she even now sneaking around their herd trying to steal a horse?

  He stood and then sat again. He could not go himself, but he sent Crazy Riding with instructions to see if the gray mare was still with the others. Iron Bear stood to present the eagle feathers. Weasel and Running Wolf were called to the center of the gathering. They stood beside their chief as Big Thunder told of Running Wolf’s prowess. For his courage, Iron Bear presented him with an eagle feather with one red spot at the top to indicate he had wounded an enemy in battle, then another for his leadership.

  Yellow Blanket spoke of Weasel’s skill at fooling the enemy in broad daylight and said that even the coyote would be proud. Weasel received a feather for his craft at deception. His friend made a joke about the way the Crow tufted their hair like frightened porcupines and everyone laughed.

  Running Wolf glanced about the group, searching for his friend Crazy Riding and found instead Red Hawk, scowling at the proceedings. This warrior came away with a handful of beads, the shame of attacking an old woman and of being unseated by a younger one. He received no feather, though he was the husband of the chief’s sister, while Running Wolf had many feathers and would soon have enough to make a war bonnet. Their gazes locked and Running Wolf saw the fury burning there.

  Crazy Riding appeared near Red Hawk and Running Wolf’s attention shifted. He nodded. Yes, the horse was still there. Running Wolf blew away a sigh of relief until it occurred to him that if he were to flee captivity, he might not take his own horse. After that it was hard to listen to the stories of famous battles won against the Crow. He just wanted to go and find Snow Raven and be sure she had not run.

  Running Wolf did not enjoy the feast or the ceremony or the dancing. He especially did not enjoy sharing an eating trencher with Spotted Fawn, whose giggle rang out like hoofbeats on stone. This was the first time in his memory that he had not savored the sweetness of earning another feather. All he could think about was Snow Raven. Where was she? What was she doing?

  He had never thought of what a captive did during the feast celebration before. He had never cared. But now he did and he didn’t understand why.

  He was just trying to think of a way to leave the circle of men when Red Hawk spoke to the gathering.

  “You have all heard of the captive that our war chief brings back to our tribe. Some of you have heard that she is a witch.”

  There was a collective gasp from the gathering. Clearly some of them had not, despite the efforts of Red Hawk’s wife.

  “She used her magic to bring me from my horse. Turtle Rattler has seen her. He can tell you.”

  Big Thunder muttered, “She brought him from his horse by diving on him like a wolverine on a bear. I will tell them.”

  But Turtle Rattler spoke first. All eyes turned to their shaman as he nodded to Red Hawk.

  “I have spoken to this woman and she is not a witch.”

  Running Wolf’s shoulders relaxed.

  “But she is still dangerous. Still enemy.”

  Running Wolf’s jaw tightened.

  “I need time to seek the answer in the Spirit World on what is to be done. You have brought your concerns to me. I have heard them.”

  It was a rebuke and all knew it. Turtle Rattler did not like being pushed or prodded like a pack animal and had let Red Hawk know this publicly.

  “He deserved worse,” said Big Thunder.

  Weasel took that moment to leap to his feet and pretend to ride a horse. He was waving something in his hand. Running Wolf peered and saw a strand of beads. Weasel made a full circle and then made an elaborate show of falling to the ground. The warriors who had returned from the raid knew what this was. The village did not. After Weasel had come to rest he lay still for a moment and then thrust the hand with the beads up toward the night sky.

  “Red Hawk looks as mad as a wounded bull buffalo,” said Big Thunder.
“I would not be surprised if blood starts pouring from his nose any minute.”

  A lung wound would cause the bulls to rage, Running Wolf knew. It was when they were most dangerous.

  “Weasel,” said Running Wolf. “No more riding now.”

  Weasel grinned and made his way to Red Hawk, offering the beads. Red Hawk lifted his hands as if he would strike them from Weasel’s hand but instead he took them, gripping them so tightly the strand broke. Then he dropped them in the dirt.

  “You should become a heyoka, Weasel,” said Red Hawk, referring to the sacred clowns who taught the people how to behave by doing the exact opposite.

  “You don’t like my show? Why don’t you tell them I am a witch?”

  Red Hawk rose to challenge Weasel, but Yellow Blanket put a hand on Weasel and asked him politely to tell the story of how he tricked the Sioux again. Weasel now had the attention of everyone. It was usual that another warrior, a witness, would tell the story, and earlier Crazy Riding had told the tale, but no one told a story better than Weasel.

  Weasel began, engrossing all in his story. Running Wolf noticed Red Hawk withdrawing from the gathering. His wife, Buffalo Calf, wearing the multiple strands of beads, followed a moment later.

  Running Wolf did the same. He had not intended to follow Red Hawk closely. He only wanted to get to the place he had told Snow Raven to rest, and Red Hawk and his wife were between him and his objective. That was the reason Running Wolf heard Red Hawk’s words to his wife.

  “She is the cause of this embarrassment. If she were not unnatural I would never have been unseated.”

  His wife’s murmured reply was not audible but Running Wolf thought her tone sounded soothing.

  “I don’t want you to wear them any longer. And I want you to tell the other women to beat her.”

  Running Wolf paused in the darkness. It was as he’d feared. Weasel’s antics had made things worse, and he knew he would not always be there to protect her. Could she protect herself?