by Karen Kay
It was not the best cover, but it would have to do.
As he searched for the best hiding place for the women, a feeling of foreboding took hold of him. It was then he realized he must proceed cautiously. Very, very cautiously.
“I wish we could go into the trading post. I think men sometimes forget that a woman’s heart needs a little adventure also. There might be something there for me…material for a dress, or—”
“Your…husband tell me…we…women…not go. Stay here.”
“I know, but—”
“Could…watch.”
“Could we? Is there a way?”
“We…hide…there.” Yellow Swan pointed to the shrubs which extended around the perimeter of the hill.
“Yes, yes. If we scoot far ahead, while keeping to the line of bushes, we might be able to see what’s happening without being seen. You’re a genius, my friend.”
The two women grinned at one another and took their positions.
Marietta gazed out into the grounds of the trading post. It was quite a small affair. Little more than a camp, it had no palisades to ward off attacks or bastions to defend it. From where she sat, the place looked as if it consisted of no more than three log buildings and a medium-sized corral.
The odd thing was that there was no activity there. None.
At length, Marietta whispered, “It doesn’t look to be much of a going business, does it?”
“Something…wrong,” said Yellow Swan. “It not…as I remember it. Long ago…it…cheerful…place.”
Marietta nodded and stared out at the post from as many different angles as she could manage without exposing herself. There was no sign of Grey Coyote.
How long would he be gone? He had left hours ago. Still, she reckoned, since he was on a scouting mission, if he were doing his job well, she wouldn’t see him.
Returning her gaze to the trading post, she frowned. “I think you are right, Yellow Swan. Something about that place is unwelcoming.”
“Han.”
“I guess we’d better wait here.”
Yellow Swan didn’t speak, but she bobbed her head briefly. The two of them settled in to wait.
Death lived here. Grey Coyote had sensed it, had smelled it. It must have happened within the last few days, he determined. Otherwise there would be more animal activity in and about the place.
But what had happened?
Slowly, Grey Coyote crept up to and around each of the post’s buildings, three in all. The horses were gone, and the corral gate hung open with the wind blowing it back and forth.
Grey Coyote examined the parched ground around the corral, trying to piece together what had taken place. A large man, a very large man had been here…about three days ago.
Bending down, Grey Coyote traced one of the moccasin prints with his finger. The particular shoe was made from one piece of rawhide that had one seam that ran from ankle to heel.
These were not Indian prints. These were the white-man-turned-Indian tracks. Those of a trapper.
Was the trapper still here?
Carefully, Grey Coyote listened, sniffing the air, trying to perceive any ever-expanding circles that would indicate motion or life—in any direction.
There was nothing.
Coming down onto hands and knees, Grey Coyote studied the footprints further, seeking other signs that would tell the tale of this post. Placing his fingers into the print, Grey Coyote felt it for subtle differences. The man walked like a beast, dragging his feet. This would be a big man, overweight, but strong. There was more. The man was irrational, perhaps mad. It could be seen in the frenzied pattern of this print.
But what of the two men who ran the post? Where were they?
None of their footprints were here. If his guess was right, it indicated that they had never left. Again, Grey Coyote sent out sensory perception, feeling the air for a sign of movement.
But once again, there was nothing. Nothing but the natural motion of the air and wind all around him.
He would have to investigate.
Abandoning the footprints, Grey Coyote crept toward the buildings. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught motion in the bushes next to the hill. A careful observation showed it to be the two women, hiding behind the shrubs. He didn’t admonish them, even in thought. He could understand their curiosity.
With a wave of his arms, Grey Coyote gave them to understand they were to stay where they were and keep out of sight.
It was Yellow Swan who acknowledged him.
Giving a slight nod, Grey Coyote turned back to the task at hand, and after coming around to the entrance of the building, he slipped inside. The stench of death greeted him, and he followed the smell until he found one of the two proprietors.
Slowly, Grey Coyote crept forward toward the body. He recognized the man at once. It was Acme, and he lay face down, sprawled on the floor. On his back were several knife wounds. Whoever had killed this man had hacked away at him long after it was necessary.
There had been little struggle, suggesting that the trapper had crept in on the man unaware.
But where was the other trader? The one called LaPrenier?
Once again, Grey Coyote extended his perceptions into every corner of the post. Slinking forward, Grey Coyote stole into an inner sanctum. There was a door, and he guessed this would be where LaPrenier would be found.
Though he still didn’t sense any signs of life, he opened the door carefully. As the entryway flung wide, he at once saw LaPrenier.
The man had been stabbed twice, maybe three times. He lay slumped over a table, and clutched in one hand was a quill.
Had LaPrenier been trying to write something?
Though Grey Coyote was not acquainted with writing, many times he had witnessed his brother-in-law working over papers and books very similar to these.
Taking a few steps forward, Grey Coyote moved LaPrenier’s body. Sure enough, the man had written something before his death. But what?
Though he could make no sense of what the marks meant, sitting behind some bushes, out there on the hill, was someone who very likely could.
Moving LaPrenier’s corpse farther to the side, Grey Coyote grabbed hold of the book that contained the writing, and placing it under his arm, carefully slipped away from this place.
“Ito, come,” Grey Coyote said to the two women as soon as he was within speaking distance. “Let us go back to the far side of the hill, where I originally told you to wait. It is a better location for hiding than this one is. We must talk.”
Yellow Swan scooted in the direction he pointed. Marietta made a move to follow her, but Grey Coyote caught her by the arm.
“My wife,” he said, “I have need of your talent.”
“Me?” She turned back to him, her look slightly puzzled. “What do you mean? What talent?”
Grey Coyote held out the book to her. “Can you tell me what the white man’s scratches mean?”
Mystified at first, Marietta stared at the book, then accepted and opened it. “Yes, I can read this writing. Where did you get this?”
“From the spirit of the men who traded at this place.”
“Spirit of the men?”
“They are dead. But there is something in this book that drew me to it.”
“Oh no. The men are dead?”
Grey Coyote nodded. “Three days. One man was stabbed many times in the back. One man was stabbed three times. But this man held a quill clutched in his hand, and he had been making white man’s writing. Some of the scratches I see are different from the others. I do not know what these mean, but I wonder, did he leave a message?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go back to our hiding place, and I’ll have a look.”
Grey Coyote inclined his head and led her there.
Chapter Sixteen
“This is a book of record,” said Marietta. “One hundred pounds of beaver pelts at three dollars a pound, two hundred pounds of buffalo robes. It’s a journal of their day-to-
day business.”
Grey Coyote nodded. “But is there anything special about what was written three days ago?”
“I don’t know. Here, let me flip to that page.” She turned to the last entry—not a pretty sight. There was dried blood on the page, and Marietta made a slight face. “Do you know why these men were killed?”
“I do not,” said Grey Coyote. “I am trying to determine that.”
Marietta swallowed hard. “It’s not the last entry that is important, but what is written on its adjoining page—here.” She pointed. “The man was dying as he wrote this. You can see it from the style of his penmanship.”
“Hau, yes, this I know. But what does it say?”
“‘The beast’, he writes, ‘brought in wolf pelts to trade, got drunk.’” Marietta stared up at Grey Coyote. “He then writes that he and his partner drugged the man because they were afraid of him. The beast awoke; he was insane.” She pointed to the writing. “They shot at him, but like a bear, the beast could not be killed. The two partners holed up in the back of their house, hoping the beast would go away, but he didn’t. These things he wrote before the beast burst in on him. But look, his last entry is a description of this thing he calls the beast: ‘Half man, half animal. Long, dark straggly hair. Black beard, mustache. A big man, more bear than human.’”
“Humph!” said Grey Coyote. “This is familiar.”
“Familiar? About the beast?”
“Hau, hau. Please read it again.”
“‘Long, dark straggly hair. Black beard…’”
Grey Coyote heard no more. It was he, the man Grey Coyote sought. And he was only three days away. At last, Grey Coyote was on the right path.
Glancing up, Grey Coyote observed that, in the west, storm clouds were accumulating fast. It was hardly surprising. Nor did it astonish him that above him came a rumble of thunder. Indeed, such phenomena were a part of his namesake. These were signs, mere signs.
The chance to end this curse was near.
Fort Pierre was designed in a square, with a garden at its southwest section. Much more fortified than the Acme Trading Post, Fort Pierre’s main building was surrounded by pickets of large logs which were taller than the fort itself. Bastions jutted out from the fort’s northeast and southwest corners, causing Marietta to wonder if there was a reason for such defense.
Was this western land really so dangerous?
Regardless, in her view of it, the fort represented civilization. But instead of the enthusiasm this thought should have brought, a sense of loss swept over her. Strange.
She, Yellow Swan and Grey Coyote were at present lying on a cliff, overlooking a scene that stretched out over a level expanse of dry, brown prairie. They had traveled there through the night, having burned the trading post to the ground as a burial ceremony.
They had then set their trail to intersect with the beast, following his tracks…to this place.
Interestingly, Fort Pierre sat amongst a great deal of beauty. Perhaps two hundred or more graceful Indian lodges were pitched in the fort’s vicinity, their aesthetic, conical shapes adorning the landscape. Close to the fort flowed the Missouri River, its muddy currents rushing by at a fast pace, like whirling drifts of coffee-colored water. Hills rose on the western side of the fort, and in the far distance were the hazy, dark shapes of even taller mountains.
Marietta frowned. This, of course, was her chance. There swirled the Missouri River, so near she could almost reach out and touch it. There lay her ticket to St. Louis. Indeed, at this place she could hire a guide, then follow the river all the way back to St. Louis.
But she was not the same person she had been only a week ago. There were other people, other duties to consider now.
Could she leave Grey Coyote? Could she do it when his destiny seemed so close at hand? Moreover, hadn’t his vision, and hers, expressed that she should follow him?
But what about England? What about Rosemead, the family estate? Didn’t she have her own dream to follow?
After all, if she did not appear in the solicitor’s office in a timely manner…
Before her adventures with Grey Coyote, Marietta had been fairly certain of what her future might hold were she to survive the journey. And it had been a happy prospect. Could she really disregard it so easily?
However, all was not as it was, even two weeks ago. What if she did leave and Grey Coyote didn’t end the spell that haunted him? What if it was all because of her? What then? Would her decision to go be a source of distress to her for the rest of her life? For the rest of his life?
Most likely it would. Yet her hopes, her dreams, her duty to her family could not be easily disregarded… Truly, Marietta stood divided.
Grey Coyote, who reposed on his stomach between Marietta and Yellow Swan, was happily unaware of Marietta’s thoughts and had begun to speak. “The Indian camps here—those that are raised around this fort—are of the Teton and Yankton Lakota. And though these tribes are cousins of the Assiniboine, we are at war with them.”
Marietta tossed him a quick glance. “Does this mean it will be difficult to approach the fort?”
“Difficult, it will be,” he acknowledged. “But not impossible.” Carefully, he turned over and stared up into the sky. “I may find myself dressing in the fashion of the Lakota.”
“Dressing like the Lakota?”
“A scout,” Grey Coyote said, seeming amused, “must affect many different disguises.”
“Ahhh.” Marietta beamed at him. “That is a very good idea.” Glancing down at herself, she frowned. “But we have a problem, Mr. Coyote. Beneath the mud and grass that I have been forced to wear, I am practically naked.”
“I know.” A half smile pulled at his lips. “Your lack of dress has been of much inspiration to me.”
She shook her head at him. “No, you don’t understand. I can’t approach the fort or the Indian encampment like this.”
“Hau, this I understand, and it is too bad that your manner of dress—or rather undress—will have to change. But, alas, it has to be. Therefore, I think we will pause here while we bathe and change clothing.”
“Ah, how I would love to get rid of this mud and clay. But there is still a problem.” She pointed to herself. “I don’t have any other clothes. I didn’t save so much as a simple chemise.”
“Hokahe,” said Grey Coyote. “Have I not taught you to observe better than that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you not noticed how greatly this parfleche bulges?” He indicated the bag strapped around his shoulder.
“No, I have not, and I… You don’t mean that you…”
He nodded. “I have brought your dress with me.”
“You have? Why that’s wonderful.” Her enthusiasm, however, died quickly. “Still it’s not good. Remember? You cut my clothing off me.”
“And can you not repair it?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course I can. But is there time? And do we have the materials that I will need to sew it together?”
“We will take the time. And we have sinew for sewing. Perhaps you could see what you can do to it today. We can rest here while you make the repairs. Then tonight we will find a deserted stream and wash this mud from our bodies so we might clothe ourselves appropriately. Once done, we may then approach the fort in the early dawn tomorrow morning.”
She nodded. “I like the sound of this. It is a good plan.”
“Hau, I had hoped you would like it. Come, let us make a shelter so we might complete our work without worry.”
Grey Coyote turned over again, back onto his stomach, and coaxing the women to follow him, they scooted down from their overlook.
The sun hadn’t yet put in an appearance on this bright, new day, when a party of three stepped toward the fort’s gate. Two of the group were Indian, a man and woman. The third was a white woman.
Perhaps it was because of this woman that the three presented such an unusual sight. Maybe, too, it was their “new” clo
thes which seemed to cause speculation.
Somewhere, somehow during the night, Grey Coyote had managed to count coup on some Lakota clothing, as well as a few trinkets from the surrounding Indian camp. It was a good masquerade they had affected, for Grey Coyote had not only donned the clothes of the Lakota, he had parted his hair down the middle so as to reflect the appearance of the Lakota tribe in every way possible. Yellow Swan had done much the same.
Thus, the three of them had walked safely through the Indian encampment toward the fort. There had been curious stares, yes, but they had arrived at the gate with impunity.
“Who goes there?” called the gatekeeper after they had asked for admittance.
“You must answer for us,” whispered Grey Coyote.
Nodding, Marietta at once called out, “I am Maria Marietta Welsford, an English lady. I have arrived here with the two Indians you see beside me. They have guarded me and protected me as we traversed over the prairie, and they have brought me here.”
“Yer a white woman?”
Marietta said, “Have you no eyes, man?”
“What’cha waiting fer?” came another male voice from over the wall. “Are ye blind? Open the gate.”
“But a white woman? Here? It’s hard ta—”
“I was traveling with a party from Europe,” Marietta interrupted, “but I became lost from them. These Indians found me and have brought me here safely.”
No reply followed this. The gate, however, slowly swung open, and after a few moments of hesitation, Marietta stepped into the inner sanctum of the place called Fort Pierre, followed first by Grey Coyote, and then by Yellow Swan.
On her left and right, she was greeted by the sight of rows and rows of log houses, though directly in front of her stood a larger, more magnificent home, with a smaller building to its right. No grass grew here. It was all dirt, though there was an American flag raised on a pole, which waved at them from the center of the parade ground.
There, however, the pleasantries ended. Far from being the refreshing scene Marietta had envisioned upon her return to civilization, she cringed.