The Spirit of the Wolf

by Karen Kay

  “Yes?”

  “Even if I leave you for a moment, you are not to stir until I come for you. I have told you before that you are not to move, but there is more. I must obtain your complete word of honor that you will not budge or try to find me, for I may have to hide your friend then come back for you. There may be other plans I might make instantly. And I cannot worry about you doing something I have not envisioned.”

  “I understand.”

  His eyes narrowed at her. “Ensure that you do. If there is anything that gives you uncertainty, you should ask me now. For once we are in the enemy camp, there is no leeway for error. Even if their warriors begin to spill out of the camp and they are seeking me, you are not to move. Your inaction in this will be your salvation, for they will not see you unless they step on you, which is unlikely.”

  “All right.”

  “Even if I am attacked. Do you agree?”

  She hesitated. “Actually, I think that’s expecting a lot. I mean, even if you’re attacked? What kind of friend am I if I don’t do something?”

  “A very good friend, for I am compelled to ask you, how could you alone fight off twenty warriors?”

  “That’s not the point. If you’re in danger, I might want to—”

  “It is the point. I am a scout. I know how to hide, I have been trained to slip in and out of hostile territory, and I would get away. Rest assured that I can do this. But I cannot worry about you or have my attention on you or what you might try to do. Therefore, I require your promise that you will obey me in all these things.”

  She exhaled forcefully. “Very well.”

  “And you promise? I must hear you promise.”

  “Very well, if I must. I promise.”

  He nodded. “Then as soon as I complete the painting of your face, we are ready to go. Almost.”

  “Almost?”

  He nodded. “There is one more thing I am obliged to do.”

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  He kissed her.

  She grinned. “Is that what you had to do?”

  “Hau, plus I am going to make a doll out of grass and buckskin.”

  “A doll?”

  “Hau. But I will need to borrow some of your clothing. Will you let me?”

  “Of course. But what are you going to do with it?”

  “You will see,” he said. “You will see.”

  Her smile at him widened. To her surprise, the danger of what they were about to do seemed…thrilling. In truth, excitement coursed through her.

  As though he sensed it, he smiled back at her.

  Crawling, slithering across the dim moonlight, they spanned the prairie toward the enemy’s camp, moving guardedly, fluidly, making no sound. But it was slow going.

  Dear Lord. Did all scouts possess the patience of a saint? It would seem to her as though they must.

  With every motion taken forward, Grey Coyote dropped back to cover their footprints. Because he was also leading their small party, and because he carried a large grass doll on his back, as well as his own and another bow, the continual need to backtrack soon became tedious and tiresome.

  Marietta was not used to being crouched into a rolled-up position for any length of time, nor was she accustomed to squatting, for that matter. She soon found her calf muscles spasming.

  But she refused to give in to the impulse to stop, or to turn around and go back the way she had come. She had said she would help; she meant to help.

  They had probably crawled over a mile or more when at last they came to a ridge.

  Grey Coyote turned to her, brought her hand to his lips and formed the words, “The enemy is over that crest. I will put you in a position so that you can see into their camp. Scan it, keep alert, but also train your eyes on me.”

  She gave him one brief nod.

  “Over there…” he pointed to the west of the hostile encampment, “…is where your friend is tied and guarded. When you look for me, watch for earth that moves—that will most likely be me.”

  Again, she inclined her head.

  Carefully, he guided her into a place slightly lower than the crest of the ridge, taking much pain with the exact position. Only her eyes and the upper portion of her head were above it.

  At last he seemed satisfied. Briefly, he placed the fingers of one hand over his lips, bringing those same fingers to her lips.

  It was his way of kissing her.

  Then he was gone. He had disappeared over the summit of the ridge and was even now slithering down into the enemy camp. Marietta watched him, yet so fluidly did he shift over the land that after a while, considering how the wind blew about the earth and grasses, he literally did disappear.

  Nevertheless, she was determined to watch, and every now and again, she thought she caught sight of him, but she was never certain.

  Grey Coyote left, feeling secure in the knowledge that Little Sunset would be safe. To the naked eye, she would simply look like a rock on the ledge.

  Though he was aware she hadn’t liked many of the conditions he had forced on her, he’d had no choice but to procure her promise. A scouting mission was a very dangerous affair; it was not something one did without careful planning.

  Slowly executing a belly crawl so that it was without sound, he slid down the slight incline toward the enemy. As he did so, Grey Coyote also recited his plan in his mind.

  He would skim around the outer line of the enemy camp, even though this area lay exposed and open to the eye. Because no one would expect an attack from that quarter, their guard’s attention would likely be elsewhere.

  Inch by slow inch, carefully, Grey Coyote slinked across the ground, edging toward the west, where the woman was held. There was but one sentry posted over her, and this man seemed alert, as though he anticipated an attack.

  That this would cause Grey Coyote some difficulty was obvious, since the man would be hard to fool. However, it was not impossible.

  Grey Coyote at last crept up behind the guard, and there he paused for a time, watching the man, observing him to see if there might be a pattern in his defense. If one could be detected, that pattern would be the man’s weakness.

  However, this sentry was alert, and Grey Coyote could find no flaws, except for one odd detail: Not once in many moments had the man glanced at the woman he guarded. Indeed, it was almost as though he expected an attack from within the camp.

  And maybe he did. Perhaps he had claimed the woman for his own, and this was his way of protecting what he had decided was his.

  The woman was tied, hand and foot. She was also asleep, and the guard most likely assumed she would remain so. Grey Coyote did not make a sound as he cautiously crept up to the woman. She was not gagged, so he placed his hand over her mouth to muffle any intake of breath. But this woman was Indian, well-trained to expect the unexpected—as Indian women often were—and she did not cry out. However, her eyes flew wide open.

  Grey Coyote touched her on the shoulder, then showing her his face, signaled to her that she was to remain quiet. Carefully, he shook his own hand once to show he was a friend. She inclined her head in understanding, but the movement was minute.

  Carefully, so as not to disturb the air with the telltale evidence of his presence, Grey Coyote gestured toward her, telling her to keep still. Again she answered with the slight bending of her head.

  Then came the lengthy process of untying the knots that bound her. Placing his knife in his mouth, Grey Coyote stole toward her feet. The ties were tight and would require much too long to undo. After taking knife in hand, he made one clean slice, and her feet were free.

  He crept back up toward her hands. Another cut, and those bonds also dropped away.

  She was now free, but in securing their flight, by necessity they would both have to be severely attentive. At present, the guard was keeping his vigil and had not looked this way, but any sudden movement would send his attention toward them.

  With a slow gesture—his right hand moving down unde
r his left—Grey Coyote gave the woman to understand that she was to come with him, and that she was to hide. He had already selected the place for her, a small cave by the canyon’s edge. It was hidden from even a trained observer’s eye, obscured by no more than a profusion of common rabbit brush. She would hide while he returned to the camp to wage his own subtle battle with the enemy.

  Carefully, as though they had all the time in the world, the woman rose to a crouch. Luckily, the guard’s attention had been drawn toward his comrades’ encampment, where a dance had commenced. Whooping and hollering, as well as a steady drum beat, split the air.

  Good. This would do well to cover any mistakes the woman might make.

  Yellow Swan followed Grey Coyote and slipped into the small cave easily. Using hand signals again, Grey Coyote gave her to understand that he would return for her momentarily.

  She nodded.

  He set off. Warily, he crept back to where her captors had tied her. Noiselessly, he slipped both doll and one of the bows from across his shoulder. The doll he set on the ground and tied the woman’s former bonds to it. In the doll’s lap, he placed the bow. Leisurely, he smiled, taking a moment to admire his handiwork.

  It was, indeed, a good joke. For when at last this was discovered, the owner of that bow would be blamed. At least it would be so at first. Shortly, however, many of the men would discover that their own weapons were also gone.

  Then, and only then, would these men know the shame of being too easily lulled by complacency.

  Grey Coyote was beginning his backward exit from the camp when the guard happened to gaze at the place where the woman should have been. At first the ploy worked, and it looked as if the man saw nothing except what he wanted to see.

  But then his eyes narrowed, and cautiously, he stepped toward the doll.

  Grey Coyote froze, lowering himself to the ground. Gradually, one smooth motion after another, Grey Coyote backed away, precisely covering his tracks as he moved. No panic, he reminded himself. A calm mind would see him out of this camp alive.

  Suddenly, the alarm was sounded. Grey Coyote’s ruse had been discovered.

  The drumming ceased, the whooping stopped, although the night air still rang with the noise. Excited warriors, one by one, ran to the place where Yellow Swan had once been tied. Their combined voices contributed to the confusion. However, there was little to do except scold the one whose bow had been stolen. So they took out their frustration in the only way possible—on the doll, attacking it, pulling it apart.

  A name was called—probably the name of the owner of that bow, and a few of the enemy hurriedly left to find the man responsible. But one warrior, a young lad—perhaps a scout in training—spared the doll but a glance.

  Instead, his gaze roamed over the immediate area, searching for what the boy knew had to be close at hand—a scout. Alas, the lad unsheathed his knife and started toward Grey Coyote.

  But Grey Coyote was prepared. He stopped all movement, letting his body become a part of the earth while he wrapped his fingers around a stone. Quickly, with as little motion as possible, he threw the rock in an opposite direction from where he lay.

  Luckily, the lad was still a novice, and he fell for the trick, changing his direction.

  Grey Coyote continued his exit slowly, methodically backing toward the cave where he had hidden Yellow Swan. At last, he stumbled back into the cave, and for a moment they were safe.

  Outside of this cavern, the enemy camp was a riot of confusion, and Grey Coyote grew concerned. Would Marietta remain hidden, as she had promised? Or would she panic?

  True, she had given him her word, and he was certain she would try to keep it. But sometimes unexpected events could startle one, and a person would react involuntarily. Such would be the response that could cost her.

  He decided he had best see to her at once.

  Yet, though anxiousness for her welfare tore at him, Grey Coyote knew he must not panic. It would create disaster.

  Using the plains system of hand signs once again, Grey Coyote gave Yellow Swan to understand that she was to follow him. Without complaint, she nodded, leaving Grey Coyote to conclude she must have desired greatly to leave the camp.

  “You must do exactly as I do,” he signed with his hands, since to speak would be a catastrophe. “Their confusion and anger will be their weakness. We must use that. Do you understand?”

  Again, she nodded.

  They left the safety of the cave. On stomach and elbows, they slithered across the moonlit landscape, ignoring the pandemonium in the enemy encampment.

  But he could not lead their party and also erase their trail. Giving Yellow Swan the sense of the direction they should take, Grey Coyote followed her, correcting her course now and again.

  It had been a wise maneuver to center their trail over the open and defenseless ground. Not one warrior, not even the novice scout, thought to check in that direction.

  At last, he and Yellow Swan climbed over the crest of the ridge, where Marietta still lay in wait. She gasped as they came into view, but he forgave her that—he could see the panic in her eyes.

  Signing toward Yellow Swan, he gave her to understand the general direction they were to take, and again, he let her lead their party. Silently, they crept away from the encampment.

  They stole across the prairie, slowly, carefully, cutting a circuitous path back to the area of the rose bushes. At length, they trailed into their own little gully. The distance between this and the enemy’s location was not as great as it might be, so Grey Coyote would not permit open talk.

  Slow gestures, fingers to one another’s lips if necessary, he cautioned.

  However, he couldn’t stop Marietta from throwing her arms around Yellow Swan and hugging her, nor could he keep Marietta from whispering, “It’s Marietta, my friend. Remember me?”

  “English…friend? Save…” There were tears in the Indian maiden’s eyes.

  “Yes,” said Marietta. “It’s me.” It seemed to Grey Coyote that Marietta almost wept too.

  But he would allow no more talk, and with slow, sweeping gestures, he gave Yellow Swan to understand that she was to disguise herself, much as he and Marietta had already done.

  “I will help you to do this,” whispered Marietta.

  Yellow Swan nodded, and Marietta led her friend to the stream where, only hours ago, a completely different couple had made magnificent love.

  Watching them, Grey Coyote wondered if somehow the stream would retain their presence forever. Indeed, for him, this spot would always remain sacred.

  But enough wasted time. Every moment counted, and Grey Coyote set about making preparations to abandon camp. After all, no matter how unlikely, the enemy might yet possess one amongst them who could track a scout.

  With a loud bang, the beast, half man, and perhaps half bear, threw the wolf pelts onto the trading post’s counter. He grunted.

  “What’cha give me fer these here pelts?” growled the beast.

  The proprietor, a Mr. LaPrenier, approached the trading post’s platform, but he did so with some misgiving. Accustomed to the wild look of the trappers in general, there was something about this particular man that seemed too savage, as though the trader stared into the eyes of a creature instead of a man.

  Perhaps it was the brute’s smell, or maybe it was his size.

  Or mayhap it was the man’s clothing. So greased were the beast’s garments from wear and use, what had most likely been a buckskin tan color was now an ugly black. Worse, so stiff was the hide of these, from perhaps sweat and other unmentionable things, the clothing looked more like a sheet of metal than that of an animal skin.

  Still, LaPrenier was a businessman, and in as friendly a fashion as possible, he came to stand before the beast, the trading post’s counter between them.

  “Been wolfin’?” asked LaPrenier pleasantly.

  The creature didn’t answer, simply grunted, showing yellow, crooked teeth.

  Carefully, LaPrenier
lifted up the skins one by one, setting them out before him. Without appearing to do so, he studied each one before he said, “These is good wolf pelts, monsieur. What do ye have here, thirty-five, forty?”

  “What’s the matter with yer? Can’t ya count?”

  “Of course, monsieur. Of course. Is only that the customer usually tells me how many he bring. I trust to their honor.”

  “Does ya now?” grunted the beast. “In that case thar’s fifty pelts here. Thar’s right. Fifty.”

  LaPrenier eyed the trapper warily, and fearing the man lied, the proprietor commenced to rapidly sort through the merchandise, counting each fur covertly.

  As he had thought, there were only thirty-eight pelts. Mentally deducting the difference, he said, “I can give ye one dollar a fur.”

  The brute snarled unpleasantly. “If’n I take ’em upriver, they’ll give me four.”

  LaPrenier shrugged. “That is all I can give ye. Wolf pelts not in high demand—not like beaver.”

  The beast grumbled but said nothing.

  Still of a mind for pleasantries, LaPrenier asked, “Will ye be wanting anything from the store, monsieur? We have good assortment of hunting knives, traps, whisky.”

  “Whisky, coffee, flour, sugar, tobacco,” said the beast. “Them things I need fer my outfit. But give me whisky first.”

  LaPrenier nodded, and turning, reached for a bottle of spirits. “That’s five dollar a pint.”

  “Make that two bottles of whisky, and keep it comin’.”

  Again LaPrenier turned to do the brute’s bidding, but fearing the man—especially under the influence of drink—LaPrenier laced the brew with laudanum. It wasn’t long before the beast fell to the floor, sprawled out like a giant bear. But the creature was not so unconscious that what manner of liquid could not be kept down soon came up.

  “Mr. Acme,” cried LaPrenier to his partner, who had kept to the back of the store during this exchange. “Come, help me roll this beastie to the water. Mayhap after a bath, we may be able to tolerate his stench. Come, help…”

  Mr. Acme, braver now that the beast lay asleep, hurried forward to do his duty.