by Jenna Kernan
Now Running Wolf was simmering like the coals. Red Hawk had no right to threaten his captive. He wanted to go find this man and drag him from his lodge. Instead, he clasped Snow Raven’s hand and thrilled at her sharp intake of breath.
“If he touches you, he will be very sorry.” He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it.
This time, her smile reached her eyes.
“Red Hawk asked Spotted Fawn if she would like to come to his tepee for a meal. He said his wife wanted to talk to her. That night she told her mother that Buffalo Calf asked her if she would be interested in being Red Hawk’s second wife.”
This made him sit up straight. “What?”
“She told Buffalo Calf that it was an honor and she would have to consider that. But she told her mother that Red Hawk is too old and wrinkly. Though her mother said that he is destined to be on the council of elders and would be a good choice.”
“Would you make such a choice?”
“I might.” But she shook her head. “I understand it. Many women would. But I am different. Not so ambitious.” She looked at him a long moment. “I would choose for love, and I would want a husband who will think of me before all else.”
His fingers slid from hers. “That is not the way for a man. He must always think of his people first. His duty to his family is only part. He has a duty to the tribe.”
“I know this in my head. But my heart speaks its own tongue. Perhaps this is why I have found no man. The man I take will know that if it comes to a choice between the two, he would choose me.”
“This is a kind of selfishness. Only by the survival of the tribe do the people survive. A man must risk his life to save his people.”
“Then, he should do no less for the woman he wishes to wed.”
“Anything else?”
“He must make my skin tingle and my heart beat fast.”
“Yes. On that we agree.” He smiled.
“And he must be a skilled horseman.”
“What if he could beat you in a race?” He grinned at the prospect of racing over the prairie after Snow Raven.
“That would be a start.”
“Perhaps I will race you.”
Her smile died and she looked at him with sad eyes. “We will never race.”
He knew she was right. Women of his tribe used horses to carry and to drag their possessions. They never rode out alone, as he suspected Snow Raven once did. She knew her place, even if he had forgotten it.
He flicked a broken stick into the fire, feeling morose now, trapped like one of her rabbits. The more he struggled, the tighter the noose became.
She sat with perfect stillness, savoring the heat of the fire.
“You asked me of Spotted Fawn,” he said. “I would tell you something I have shared with no other.”
She straightened, giving him the gift of her attention.
“All these other women.” He waved a hand in the direction of the tribe. “They bore me. They all bore me. I cannot imagine spending a meal with any of them, let alone a lifetime. Now I have finally met one who interests me and stirs my blood.” He stroked a finger down her soft cheek. “She rides and hunts and does not speak nonsense, and she is you.”
Raven pressed her fist to her mouth and regarded him in silence.
“I cannot have you, Raven. Not and do my duty. I cannot choose a captive as a wife and lead my warriors against yours.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Before I met you I knew what to do. The ground beneath me did not heave and shudder. I never asked the questions that you ask, like when is the killing enough? I fear if I stay here with you I will not want to do what a man must do, that I will not want to ever go back. But I must.”
She bowed her head and pressed her hands over her face. Her words were muffled, but he heard each one. “Even if you asked, I could not take you as my husband.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You are a captive. Marrying me would raise your status, make you one of us. You have everything to gain.”
“It would raise my status among my enemies and lower it among the other captives.”
“Why do you care what they think?”
“Because they are Crow and I am Crow.” She beat her fist on her breast. “Do you think you are the only one that risks losing who and what you are? I am the daughter of a chief. I am a Crow woman. If I married you, what would I be? No one. My father would have nothing to do with me. My brother? You might have to kill him in a battle. Do you know what that would do to me? I cannot. I will not.”
“What do we do, then?”
She lowered her head and gripped her fists in her hair.
“I only know what I cannot do. I cannot be your woman.”
The silence stretched. He wrapped an arm about her. She resisted the pressure of his embrace.
“In the darkness, one cannot see who is Crow and who is Sioux.”
She relaxed against him, and he relished the feel of her warm body next to his. Why did this one have to be Crow?
After a time, her head sank forward, then bobbed back up.
He knew he must bring her back, because if he slept with her out here in the cottonwood grove one thing would happen, and even if it did not, others would think it had. He scattered the coals and covered them with dirt. Then he packed what meat he could carry in the skin.
He led the way back to their camp. Only once he was at the place where his mother slept did he recall that his mother had left only two sleeping skins. One for beneath him and one for over him. He dragged away the top buffalo robe and pointed to it. Snow Raven wrapped herself up in her blanket and the robe with her back toward him. He did the same.
It did not help.
All he could think of was that she was lying at arm’s length and he could pull her to him and they could touch and lick and fondle until they both found release. He feared that even this would not satisfy him, for he no longer wanted just her body. He knew he would not force her because taking her would help kill everything that was interesting and good inside her.
Instead, he rolled to his back and looked at the stars a long time, searching for some way to have Raven and keep his place in the tribe.
* * *
Running Wolf opened his eyes to see Snow Raven kneeling at his side and putting the second buffalo robe over him. She swept back the hair from his forehead and pressed her lips there. He reached for her, but she was already gone.
The birds were singing around him as he watched her walking with the six empty buffalo bladders in the direction of the stream.
Had any of last night really happened? Had she killed the pronghorn and had they sat arm in arm in the moonlight? His mother coughed and then made a startled sound.
“When did you catch this?” she asked, peeking inside the skin of the antelope at the tender ribs and haunches.
He answered with two words. “Last night.”
His mother crawled from her skins. “We should give most of this away. Fresh meat on the trail is a blessing, but it will not last.”
“Yes. Give it all away and give the skin to Snow Raven.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“Her name is Kicking Rabbit.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Her mother’s bright mood now darkened. “She knows her place here. Why is it you do not?” When he did not answer, she muttered, “We should give her away with the meat.”
Now he was glaring.
“Will you ride with Spotted Fawn today?” asked his mother.
“I will ride with the men, as I always do. We should reach the herd of buffalo today.”
In fact, they did see the buffalo. Running Wolf was in the front of the line when they spotted the herd, co
vering the next hillside and stretching back as far as he could see.
“Tomorrow,” said Iron Bear, “we will gather much meat.”
On the ride back to camp, Weasel galloped past, whooping and shouting.
Was his friend as anxious for the hunt as he was? The truth—that he kept in his heart—was that he loved the hunts much more than the raids and far, far more than the battles. He was not afraid, but he gained no joy from killing enemies. When a buffalo died, it fed his family. But killing men was different somehow.
Raven’s words came to him again. When will it be enough?
Big Thunder drew up beside him riding one of his traveling horses. Today his friend’s face was all smiles.
“Spotted Fawn spoke to me yesterday.”
He sounded pleased, and that made Running Wolf happy.
“What did she say?” He really didn’t care one way or the other, but his friend seemed so excited.
“She said, ‘Hello, Big Thunder.’”
It was all Running Wolf could do not to laugh. Where Weasel could not shut his mouth, Big Thunder rarely opened his.
“Did you answer her?”
“I did.”
Running Wolf feigned that he might fall off his horse from shock, which brought a smile to Big Thunder’s face.
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Hello.’” He sat straighter and his chest lifted, reminding Running Wolf of a grouse fluffing his feathers.
“Well. That is good.”
Big Thunder grinned. “I never spoke to her before. She even looked as if she would have said more, but I rode away.”
“Next time, stop your horse.”
Big Thunder’s shoulders rounded. “What’s the use? Her father wants you.”
“Who does Spotted Fawn want?”
Big Thunder thought about that. “I do not know.”
Running Wolf knew that choosing Spotted Fawn would help him with his ambition to rise to the position of chief. But he did not want to take the woman his friend desired, if you could call her a woman. And especially when there was no pull of attraction between them, no rising of heat, no yearning, no need and no fascination.
Only one woman gave him those feelings, and she was the one woman he could not take as wife.
His mother was surly at supper, despite the fresh antelope they shared. She gave Raven very little, and so Running Wolf stopped eating until his mother gave their captive a larger portion. His mother’s animosity toward their captive simmered and Running Wolf worried. When his mother went quiet it always meant trouble.
Before sleeping she said, “I would think a man who lost his father to a Crow lance would know the enemy.”
Running Wolf made no reply as he took to his sleeping robes. Who was right? Snow Raven, who questioned the killing, or his mother, who did not? Perhaps Raven knew her people were not strong enough to defeat the Sioux and so she tried to defeat his will to fight.
He tossed and dozed and slept poorly before rising fuzzy headed. This was a dry camp, so he could not wash in the river, but he greeted the sun and prayed as was customary. When he finished the short prayer of thanks he glanced around to see if his mother was about and was surprised to find her robes rolled for traveling and neither woman in sight.
He walked to the river where the women gathered water for the morning meal, but the only captives there were Mouse and a young one who held her torn, ragged dress on her shoulder. This must be the one Raven wanted to have the pronghorn hide. He was certain. Running Wolf also saw how thin and sickly they looked and felt ashamed.
He found Big Thunder preparing his best buffalo horse. This one was fast and could maneuver through the herd. He recalled the horse had been taken from a dead enemy that Big Thunder had killed in battle. Running Wolf paused to mentally count the number of horses he had stolen from the enemy or taken from those he had killed. Suddenly his precious feathers seemed to represent more than coups. They represented families whose fathers were not coming home. In battle he had never thought of anything but avenging his father. Each death was one more enemy gone. Each scalp lock a reminder of his valor. But had his opponents also fought to avenge a fallen member of their family?
When is it enough?
“What’s wrong?” asked Big Thunder. “You look as though you have a stomachache.”
“Have you seen my mother?”
“Yes. She was talking to Yellow Coat.”
Yellow Coat was the French trader whose Christian name was Dubois. He was the only white allowed in their camp because he had married a woman from the Sweetwater tribe. He had come from the north, not the east, many winters ago, so he was tolerated, if not welcomed.
Most whites were killed on sight and from a distance. Since many carried the spotted sickness, they were treated like rabid dogs.
“Dubois is here?” asked Running Wolf.
“I just said so.”
“Is Raven with my mother?”
“Who?”
“Kicking Rabbit,” he corrected.
“Yes.”
Running Wolf headed off toward the middle of the camp. What was his mother up to?
He found the women crowded about something. He pushed his way through until he reached a series of blankets piled with goods. White conical beads for breastplates and ornaments. Thimbles, tin cones, tiny vials of colored glass beads, string and brightly colored cloth, knife blades, ax heads and metal cooking kettles.
Running Wolf glanced about the gathering and saw many women admiring the goods. Where was Dubois? He found his mother first. She was grinning and nodding. Before her was a large pile of cloth, two red blankets and a cooking kettle full of white beads. She didn’t have enough skins to trade for that many beads.
A shot of fear went through him as he found Raven kneeling behind his mother, her eyes down, her chin tucked so that she stared at the ground.
He walked straight across the blanket to reach them, scattering beads and cloth as he went.
“Oh, mon Dieu,” said Dubois, his ruddy face growing red. The man was short and round and as hairy as a bear, except his hair was more the yellow-orange color of a two-year-old buffalo. That was why the people called him Yellow Coat.
“What goes on here?” Running Wolf demanded.
His mother’s eyes were bright with excitement but her smile seemed forced, as if she smiled only for the gathering of women.
“Look at the good trade I have made,” she said, waving a hand over the stacked goods.
He did not look. Instead, he grabbed Raven by the arm and drew her up in front of everyone.
Dubois spoke in their language, but his accent was bad, so he used gestures, as well.
“Wait, friend. This one is now mine. Your mother has made a good trade. All this for one useless woman.”
Running Wolf pulled Raven closer. “No trade.” He emphasized the finality of his words by kicking the pile of goods across the blanket.
“But I have already made the trade,” said Ebbing Water, her voice filled with astonishment.
“No.”
“Why? Did you not give her to me?”
Running Wolf pressed his lips together to keep from raising his voice to his mother. She had him in a tight spot. He had given Raven to her, but only to keep Red Hawk from killing her. He knew now without a doubt that his mother sensed something was growing between her captive and her son, something dangerous.
“She is mine. You said so. Now I have traded her to Yellow Coat.”
“No.”
“The trade is already struck,” said Dubois, beating his fist to his hand in emphasis.
Running Wolf could not think of what to say. He was not quick with words. So he acted, grabbing Dubois by the throat and drawing his knife. He pressed the point
of the iron blade to the pulsing vessel at the trader’s neck.
“You will take back what you gave my mother.”
“Yes! Yes, I will.” Then Dubois broke into his own language.
Running Wolf released him and took hold of Raven and his mother, pulling them away. But his mother would not go and tugged free.
“What will you do with her now?” said his mother. “Because I do not want her. If she is no good for trade, perhaps I will stick her with my knife, for she eats too much and works too little.”
His mother did this to him in front of all these watching women. He was lucky that the men were not also here to witness this, as they were all preparing for the hunt. But they would hear of it. Such a tasty piece of gossip would spread far and fast. Their war chief fighting with the trader and his mother for a captive.
Her mother spat her words at Snow Raven. “She is Crow, and all Crow are better dead.”
Running Wolf looked from his mother to Raven and then slowly about the gathering. All stared at him as if he was a stranger, and so he was, even to himself. What was he doing? He held Raven tighter, knowing what he should do and fighting against giving her up.
“Send her to the common women’s tepee,” said his mother. “That is all they are good for.”
He looked about and his gaze caught on Spotted Fawn, the woman he should be courting. The woman Big Thunder was too shy to speak to. The woman who made his heart cold. Her mouth had dropped open and she looked as shocked as the rest.
“If you do not want her, then I will give her to someone who does.” He turned from his mother. “Spotted Fawn lives in her father’s home. Her sister and brothers have their own lodges while she takes care of her father alone.”
“Iron Bear has a wife,” reminded his mother.
“Whom she must answer to. Now someone will answer to her.” He lifted his brow, praying that Spotted Fawn would accept this gift. He had no idea what else he could do that would not expose his shameful need for this enemy woman.
Spotted Fawn smiled. “I would accept her, if I have Ebbing Water’s permission.”
“Take her. But hear me, she is Crow and so will only bring you misery.” She said this to Spotted Fawn but she looked at her son.
