by Jenna Kernan
Big Thunder appeared beside him. They both listened to the scouts as they relayed the position and size of the herd. Running Wolf grinned, knowing that Big Thunder enjoyed buffalo hunts best. But Big Thunder just stared at him as if suffering a toothache.
“Will you ride with me?” asked Running Wolf. It was an unspoken promise that they always rode together. But it was still polite to ask.
“I don’t know.”
Now Running Wolf was frowning. “What is the matter with you?”
“Are you courting Spotted Fawn?”
Running Wolf’s eyes widened as he recognized the look in Big Thunder’s eyes. It was how he felt much of the time since Snow Raven had appeared. Suddenly Big Thunder’s abrupt departure from the river made perfect sense.
“You want that one? I have never even seen you speak to her.”
“Our chief has asked you to court her.”
“He just wants to see her wed before he takes the Ghost Road.”
“But he did not ask me. He asked you.”
Before Running Wolf could address this, someone slipped beside him and clasped his arm.
He stared down to find Spotted Fawn mooning up at him. He grimaced. What terrible timing. He glanced to Big Thunder and the two exchanged a look—Running Wolf’s apologetic and his friend’s defeated.
Spotted Fawn tugged at him, demanding his attention in the way of children.
“A hunt,” squeaked Spotted Fawn. Her head did not reach past his shoulder, and her voice was high and unappealing. What did Big Thunder see in her?
She smiled, and he thought she was pretty and had straight teeth. But having her grip his arm only made him want to shake her off. She stuck to him like a burr.
“I will help your mother skin any buffalo you take. You will need them for a lodge. And you have many horses, and my father said you could trade some of those for wool blankets and beads to please his new wife.”
She was listing her bridal sum, he realized. He glanced about for Big Thunder only to find he had vanished.
He put his free hand on Spotted Fawn’s shoulder to stop her restless bouncing. She stilled and blinked up at him, smiling as if she were already a bride. Running Wolf shivered.
“Where is your shirt?” she said, running her hand over the dimpled skin of his chest.
He forced himself not to recoil. This was not going to work.
“You know my friend Big Thunder?”
Spotted Fawn made a face, and Running Wolf’s spirits dropped even farther.
“What about him?”
“What do you think of him?”
“What do I think? I think he hates me.”
“What?”
“Well, he never speaks to me, and when I try to talk to him he runs away.”
“Perhaps he is just shy?”
“He has no trouble speaking to the council.”
“Speaking to a woman requires a different kind of courage.”
Spotted Fawn’s hand paused and then slid away from his skin. He found he could breathe easier.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I just...” Yes, why was he?
“I thought you were courting me.” One hand lifted to her hip. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No!” Was he? He must be the biggest fool ever born. If he married this woman, he would surely be the chief’s favorite. Gaining his support would go a long way toward winning the votes of the council of elders.
“Why are we talking about him, then?”
“Well, he is my best friend, and I want you to be nice to him.”
Her protruding lip vanished and she brightened again.
“I can do that.”
“And I will ask him to try to speak to you.”
She grabbed his arm again. “Yes. I will do all I can to be friends with your friends. Even Weasel. And you must be kind to Pretty Thrush and Lighting Butterfly.”
Running Wolf groaned inwardly but managed to nod. “Of course.”
Pretty Thrush was only thirteen and Lighting Butterfly was only one winter older. All were more girls than women. He did not care what her mother said and what ceremony she had completed. He would not be shocked to learn she sucked her thumb at night.
Whereas Snow Raven was lush and lithe and completely self-possessed. She did not cling or fawn. Well, she had clung last night, but that was the right kind of clinging. And she was strong and brave and rode like a warrior. He wondered if she had ever taken down a buffalo.
Spotted Fawn now jabbered like a mockingbird about the color of the dress she was making for herself and how she would decorate it with elk teeth if he would bring her some. Running Wolf scanned faces, looking for Snow Raven. Was she tearing down his mother’s lodge?
“I have to get ready to travel,” he said by way of an excuse to Spotted Fawn, and saw that pink lower lip once more stick out in a very unappealing pout. “I will see what I can do about the elk teeth.”
Her smile was back and he was away from her, thank the Great Spirit.
Before the sun had reached its apex the tribe was packed. The horses that were not needed to carry or pull would follow along. No halters were necessary. Their instinct kept them with the herd, and so they followed wherever the others went.
Running Wolf had selected his packhorses but he substituted the usual brown horse with white socks for her gray mare. His mother lifted a brow, but the horses were his. Women did not own them. Her mother ordered Snow Raven about. It was clear that, though she could ride a horse, she was not accustomed to packing one.
“Did you not pack your family’s lodge?” he asked.
“My grandmother needed no help. In fact, she insisted on doing this herself.”
“What did you do?”
“I gathered my horses and weapons.”
“You have horses?”
“No. I had them.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
Seven horses! That was enough for a bridal payment. What would her family expect a groom to give if she already had seven horses? And why was he even thinking of this? Now he was thinking something else. Who gave her these horses?
“Gifts from your sweetheart?”
“I caught them myself, except one, the foal of my chestnut mare, Drum.”
“So you can ride and hunt and catch horses?”
“Yes. And now I can also wrestle.” She smiled.
“Crow women are unnatural,” said his mother, tying another bundle onto the gray mare. Then she retreated to the diminishing pile of their belongings.
Running Wolf stepped closer to Snow Raven and rested a hand over the one she had on the crosspiece of the packsaddle. Her gaze lifted to his.
“One day I will take you hunting for elk.”
Her eyes flashed with excitement. It was the first time that his words had made her look truly animated since her arrival and the sight filled him with gladness.
“I can track for you.”
He did not say that he could track quite nicely for himself. He was too happy seeing her pleasure. “Have you ever taken an elk?”
“I have. I sewed the teeth onto my hunting shirt.”
He remembered now. He also remembered the women tearing that beautiful shirt from her body. He understood all the strands of hair she had tied to the front now, as well.
“The hair locks...were they from each of the horses you have caught?”
“Yes. But I traded some horses for this and that.”
“A metal skinning knife?” he asked, recalling the weapon she had tried to use to slit his throat.
She blushed. “I did not know you then.”
“Would you do differently if we met today?” Her skin w
as warm and soft under his. He used his thumb to stroke the back of her hand. She weaved her fingers with his. He cupped her chin and she tilted her head, preparing for his kiss.
His mother dropped her cooking kettle on the lodge poles, making it ring. Raven leaped back from Running Wolf, who turned to meet his mother’s glare. Her scowl was as fierce as a mother bear protecting cubs. Snow Raven withdrew behind him, but his mother’s attention seemed fixed to her. Then her gaze flashed to his.
“You will never take this one hunting. She is a captive.”
Running Wolf knew his mother’s moods, and she was furious now. He had protected Snow Raven from becoming a common woman. She had protected herself from the females of his tribe by putting a woman as large as Buffalo Calf on her back. But now that his mother had seen his desire for Snow Raven, who would protect her from Ebbing Water?
“Kicking Rabbit,” she said, her voice as sharp as a breaking stick, “go and fetch the blankets.”
Snow Raven hurried to do as she was bid. Running Wolf could not keep himself from watching her go. She looked sleek and graceful in her new dress of rabbit hides. She had even created a collar of what looked like a weasel. Her feet were no longer bare, though the moccasins were of the design of Crow, with a center seam down the middle of her foot, instead of the more comfortable seam affixing the soft upper buckskin to the tough protection of rawhide. And of course they held no adornment.
“And you,” said his mother.
Running Wolf forced his attention away from Snow Raven.
“You had best remember who you are and who she is.”
Running Wolf no longer saw fury in Ebbing Water’s eyes. Now he saw anxiety.
“She is Crow. An enemy. And you have been asked by the chief himself to court his youngest daughter. What will she say if she sees you making moon eyes at a lowly captive?”
That straightened his spine. It was one thing to suffer his mother’s ire. But the wrath of the daughter of the chief would put Snow Raven in real peril.
Running Wolf nodded his understanding and withdrew. The best way to protect Snow Raven was to keep his distance.
Chapter Ten
The tribe followed the scouts who would lead them to the herds of buffalo. Running Wolf had traveled near his mother much of the day, afraid that she might hurt Snow Raven and equally afraid that Snow Raven might hurt his mother.
He had intended to allow his captive to ride her horse, but his mother would not let a captive ride when many women of his tribe walked. She likely would not even have permitted Snow Raven to lead her gray mare, but was unaware that the horse had belonged to her captive.
The horse knew. That was obvious by the whinny when she had first discovered her mistress. Both her horse and Snow Raven had kept their relationship secret from Ebbing Water, but Snow Raven had thanked him twice. She had almost touched him again, too, but then she had glanced over her shoulder at his mother, preparing to ride the brown horse, and dropped her hands back to her sides. Running Wolf smiled, recognizing that Snow Raven also struggled with a need to touch.
His smile died under the slow realization that this would only make both of their situations worse. She would gain more enemies among the women and he would risk offending his chief.
No, his mother was right, her warning wise. He must distance himself from this little warrior woman. She was sly. Could she steal a man’s heart as easily as she stole his horses?
He left them and rode along the line of families traveling southwest. When he passed the family of Spotted Fawn’s friend, Pretty Thrush, she called a greeting and he scowled at the child for her impudence until he recalled his promise to Spotted Fawn. He groaned and then returned her greeting. In response the girl giggled. He rode ahead as quickly as he could without appearing rude.
That night his mother made a temporary camp. The sky was clear, so there was no need to erect the lodge. His mother sat squarely between him and their captive, watching. Running Wolf accepted a large bowl of the stew his mother had carried in her iron kettle from their last camp. It was hard not to comment on how little Snow Raven was given to eat, but there was less than she had started with because his mother had dropped the kettle.
He ate quickly and then went to see to his horses. He did not return until late and found only his mother sleeping between the buffalo robes. His bed was made and empty. Where was Snow Raven?
He tried to think where he would go if he were hungry and had no robe to sleep upon. Had she noticed the buffalo wallow? It was only a few paces from their trail and not very far back. He headed in that direction.
Buffalos liked to roll in the same places. Their horns and hooves dug up the thick sod until there was a deep indentation; in this way the hole grew through the efforts of thousands of buffalo over many lifetimes.
Running Wolf had seen as many as a hundred buffalo all rolling in the dust in one place. They liked to cover their coats with mud in spring and dirt in fall. In the spring such wallows were alive with frogs and snakes and birds. In the fall, when water was scarce, animals came from all over the prairie to drink the rainwater collecting there. The wallow was a natural place to hunt, and Raven was a hunter.
He stood and collected his bow and quiver. If buffalo were close, there might be pronghorn drinking or even wolves.
Running Wolf stilled at that thought and the realization that Snow Raven had no weapons and might be right now standing by the wallow alone at night. He broke into a run.
He had enough sense not to charge down the hill to the wallow, because if there were any game he would frighten them. He crept over the rise and gazed down at the half moon reflected in the water. The sun had not yet stolen all the water, though it had taken much. The muddy banks were wider than the lake.
He looked for Snow Raven and did not see her. He did not know if he should be relieved or annoyed. Then he noticed something beside him in the grass that ringed the indenture in the earth. He reached out and closed his fist around the patchwork dress made from many rabbit pelts. Beneath lay two Crow moccasins.
She was here.
His heart sped as he scanned again more carefully and found that some of the mud was moving. Snow Raven had coated herself from head to toe. Even her hair was covered. Was she planning to grab any animal that wandered too close?
Ducks were migrating now, and geese. If she was lucky, she might catch one when it landed. Though without a weapon, he was doubtful.
Part of him wanted to watch her hunt, but another part wanted to be near her. He slipped out of his leggings, loincloth, moccasins and shirt. Then he untied the feathers that decorated his hair. Finally, he gave the call of a whip-poor-will.
She stopped moving and listened. He called again. She turned in his direction and he signaled her with a sweep of his hand, kept low and parallel to the ground. She returned the gesture and waited as he slithered down the bank with his bow and arrows.
She lay facedown so he could see the moonlight illuminating the sensual curve of her back and the enticing round cheeks of her bottom. The mud only made her more appealing because he knew they both would be as slippery as otters.
He came up beside her and she gestured that she was watching something on the far bank. He saw nothing and waited beside her. He was hungry for her, but she was hungry for food. He could speak to his mother, of course, but that might just make matters worse.
They waited there, side by side. He heard the rustle before he saw the animal—a pronghorn buck stepped through the tall grass, nostrils twitching as he scented for predators.
Snow Raven had wisely put them upwind, and the mud would also cover their scent. The buck disappeared for a moment and Running Wolf removed his quill of arrows and slid both the bow and the arrows to Snow Raven. She looked at him with wide-eyed astonishment, but her fist gripped the bow and she notched an arrow.
&n
bsp; The buck appeared again, leading six does down to drink. He had done well this fall, thought Running Wolf. Six females might mean six to twelve fawns come spring, if he was potent and his females willing.
Would she take the buck? He wouldn’t. He would go for the smallest doe. Give the others a chance to mate and raise young.
She lifted the bow so that the grip was just off the mud. Then she cleaned the gut string with a slow sweep of her thumb and first finger. As the pronghorns made their way down to the water to drink, she tested the new weapon, drawing back the string and feeling the flex of the ash bow.
The mud was deep and the pronghorns’ hooves made a sucking sound as they continued toward their objective. Snow Raven notched an arrow. One of the does paused and half turned sideways to their position, looking back the way they had come. Raven released the arrow. It flew across the water like a shaft of moonlight and into the doe’s side.
The doe jumped and kicked, startling the others. Blood frothed from the antelope’s nose and mouth. The arrow had missed the ribs and gone through both lungs.
A lucky shot.
But was it luck? Raven stood now. Showing herself to her prey. She was not greedy. She did not take another shot. The remaining pronghorns galloped up the incline and disappeared as their unlucky companion fell to her knees, rolled and died. But that was the way of life. One had to drink, and that meant facing predators who had to eat.
Snow Raven handed back the bow, and even though she was coated in sticky mud, he could see her form perfectly in moonlight. The mud seemed almost like war paint, as if she really was a warrior woman as he had first seen her. Only now she was a hunter.
“Thank you,” she said, returning his bow. He wished she could keep it. It belonged in her hand.
His eyes seemed to stick to her just like the mud.
“That was a good shot.” He motioned toward the antelope. “What were you hunting?”
“I saw a flock of ducks flying over the night sky and hoped they would land. But they flew on.”