by Karen Kay
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Eric Dyer, my friend, and Cheryl (Clark) Dyer, whose golden beauty is renowned. And to my husband, Paul. I love you.
Acknowledgments
I would also like to acknowledge the following artists for their continuing inspiration:
The music of
Blake Shelton
Robbie Robertson & The Red Road Ensemble
Drew Tretick
Jeff Carson
David Pomeranz
Brulé
Tracy Lawrence
Music Flex
Celine Dion
The paintings of
George Catlin
Karl Bodmer
The Game of Cos-soo
Cos-soo, sometimes called the game of the Bowl, was a common game known to the Indians on the plains—all tribes. A game of chance, it was played only by men, and the stakes were often desperate.
The rules of Cos-soo were as follows: Players used a wooden bowl slightly less than a foot long, highly polished with a rim of about two inches. The “dice” were not dice as we might think of them, but were instead common objects on the plains at this time. These small objects were assigned certain values.
The highest value went to the large crow’s claw—there was only one per game—which was painted red on one side and black on the other. When after a throw it was standing, it counted for twenty-five points (or sticks). The count was kept by sticks. It also counted for five on its side if the red side was up—and so a total of thirty points would go to the large claw, if it were standing. No points were given if the black side was up. If it wasn’t standing, it counted for only five.
Next were four small crow’s claws, also painted red on one side and black on the other. They counted for five if landed on the red side, and nothing if on the black.
Next there were five plum stones. These were white on one side and black on the other. If the black side was up, it counted four; if the white side was up, it counted for nothing.
Then there were five pieces of blue china—they were small and round. Blue side up was worth three points; white side counted as nothing.
Farther down the line were five buttons. The eye side up counted for two each, the smooth side for nothing.
And last there were five brass tack heads. The sunken side counted for one, the raised side as nothing.
Each man kept his opponent’s score, not his own, by means of handing his opponent a number of sticks equal to his throw. The sticks were kept in view so that all could see them. In the early 1800s Edwin Thompson Denig (a trader married to an Assiniboine woman) noted: “It has been observed in these pages in reference to their gambling that it is much fairer in its nature than the same as carried on by the whites and this is worthy of attention, inasmuch as it shows how the loser is propitiated so that the game may not result in quarrel or bloodshed…”
The game was often kept up for forty-eight to seventy-two hours without a break except for meals. And it was usually played until one or the other of the players was ruined totally.
Horses, guns, weapons, clothing and women were all stakes in these games. Again, Edwin Thompson Denig observed, “We have known Indians to lose everything—horses, dogs, cooking utensils, lodge, wife, even to his wearing apparel…”
Prologue
In a time long ago, a Northwestern Indian tribe, one composed of five different tribal bands or clans, betrayed the god of Thunder. It happened in an age when food was plentiful, when starvation was unknown. Yet the men of the tribe sought to kill more game than was needed.
The Thunderer’s children thought to intervene on the animals’ behalf, but little did they know that the tribe’s greed had turned to lust. Ultimately, the tribal leaders and their followers killed the Thunderer’s children, every one of them.
In retaliation for this evil deed, the Thunderer stole four beautiful women from the tribe and sought to destroy every other member of it, all clans. It would have been accomplished, too, but for the Creator, who intervened.
“Nay, these people shall not die,” the Creator decreed. Instead He sent the people of these tribal bands into the mist. There, they would live a half existence. Neither alive nor dead, every individual would be cursed to live forever in the shadows, not real, not even ghosts.
But once a generation, a boy would be summoned as his clan’s champion. Becoming real and taking a form of substance forever, the boy would set out into the tangible world, where he would be charged with the duty of undoing the spell which enslaved his people.
In 1816, there were four tribal bands left, their people still imprisoned in the mist. Swift Hawk, then ten years old, was chosen to represent the Burnt Chest Band of the tribe; Spirit Raven, also ten years of age, was next selected from the Fast Runner Band; Long Bow would represent the Black Fire Band; and Spotted Wolf, the Yellow Shawl Band.
The boys were to go out into the world to be adopted by other Indian tribes. The champions were to grow, to learn, to watch, to come to know the enemies of their adopted tribe. For it was only through a special act of kindness and selflessness toward an enemy that the enchantment could be broken.
In 1835, Spirit Raven has less than a year left to break the spell. Adopted by the Assiniboine Indians when he was still a lad, Spirit Raven is now known to his adopted brothers as Grey Coyote; Coyote, because of the form his spirit protector takes, and Grey because the Assiniboine have observed that black clouds and hard times follow the boy always.
With so little time left to accomplish his mission, Grey Coyote is desperate.
And so begins our story…
Chapter One
The Western American Plains, the early 1830s
The scent of sacred herbs, of sage and sweet grass, hung low in the air. With a steady hand, a naked young man bathed his entire body in the hallowed smoke. At the same time, he sang the good songs, his voice lifting to the heavens.
“Hi-ya, hi-ya, hi-ya, haii.
Hi-ya, hi-ya, hi-ya, haii.”
Night had fallen. In the distance, a wolf howled. Then came another wail, another and another, until the song of the wolf mixed with the rhythm of the night.
Ancient voices, long dead, and the beat of many drums rang out over the plains. A nighthawk squawked. The young man, although aware of these signs, paid them scant attention.
The howling of his spirit protector, the little wolf, could be heard over the rest. It beckoned. It was an encouraging thing.
At last, the young man was to communicate with the Creator; Grey Coyote was to have his vision.
Positioned high atop a lonely butte, Grey Coyote raised his arms to the heavens in silent invitation, his voice for the moment stilled. Then, as though the music of the evening surrounded him, he sang out,
“Wakonda, Creator, have pity on me.
What I seek is not for myself.
It is for my people.
Wakonda, I have been charged with the duty of freeing my people from the land of the everlasting shadows.
Wakonda, I am twenty-nine winters in age.
And in all this time, I have not learned how to help my people.
Wakonda, Creator, have pity on me.”
Grey Coyote waited. He could not see his protector, the little wolf, but he could still hear its yipping off in the distance. Its song came closer and closer, until its noise grew loud even to Grey Coyote’s ears. But Grey Coyote did not draw away.
Rather, he reached out farther, so he might grasp hold of his protector. Perhaps he might touch something tangible, something that would show him that this time he was walking the good path, the right path. But he felt nothing.
Disappointed, Grey Coyote fell to his knees.
And then it happene
d, taking place so slowly at first Grey Coyote did not recognize the spirit for what it was. The little wolf’s howl had transformed from an eerie series of wails to words. They were yipping, guttural words, it was true. But to Grey Coyote, never had a sound been sweeter.
He looked up, and there on a ledge before him was his vision, his protector. There, too, was a faceless, dark-haired, white man.
“Seek out this man,” barked the little wolf. “You will know him by his long, dark and stringy hair; you will recognize him also by his greasy, ugly appearance. Many are the things that this white man will do that will repulse you. But you must persevere, for when you have found him, you need only solve this riddle:
“Neither small nor large, nor wide, nor narrow, the white man possesses a thing that will propel you toward freedom. Though he will think it is possessed by him and though you must possess it, and it will possess you, only when you are free from it, yet act as it, will your people be released from the mist.
“You alone must solve this, you alone must act on it, and if you do, your people go free. Fail to settle the riddle satisfactorily, fail to act, and your people remain enslaved. Further, if you err and do not solve this, you will live the rest of your life forever knowing you did not prove yourself worthy.
“I have spoken.”
The voice faded away, repeating these words over and over, Solve this, act on it, and your people go free, until at last the spirit itself began to evaporate.
“Ogluksa, wait!” cried out Grey Coyote. “Spirit Protector, have pity on me. I am but a simple man. And I do not understand this riddle.”
But the music had stopped. The ancient voices had stilled. Even the wolves in the distance no longer howled.
And though Grey Coyote cried out again, the spirit of the little wolf was gone. Grey Coyote was alone.
Chapter Two
The Minnetaree Village
A Permanent Indian Village of mud huts on the Knife River
Upper Missouri Territory—in what is today the State of North Dakota
Summer 1835
From the corner of his eye Grey Coyote watched the white man sneak a stick into line beside those that were already present, giving the white man eleven sticks instead of the ten he had won fairly.
So, the white man has no honor.
Grey Coyote raised a single eyebrow and cast a glance across the few feet that separated him from the white man, the man the Minnetaree Indians called the scout, LaCroix. LaCroix was French, as were many of the white men in this country. His face was pale and bearded, his hair long, dark and scraggly. His breath stank of the white man’s whisky, and his body smelled of dirt and grime.
None of this bothered Grey Coyote. In truth, he was smiling at the man, although the expression could hardly be called one of good humor. After a moment, Grey Coyote said, “Darkness has fallen again. We have been playing for longer than a full day now.”
LaCroix grunted.
“As you know, we are both guests here, in my friend’s lodge, in the Minnetaree village,” continued Grey Coyote. “And I would hardly be the cause of a fight if I could avoid it, for it would bring shame to our host, Big Eagle.”
Grunting again, LaCroix looked away. His gaze shifted from one object in the room to another, not centering on anything in particular, not even on the lovely white woman who reposed on one of their host’s beds in a corner of the hut.
As discreetly as possible, Grey Coyote let his gaze rest on that golden-haired beauty. He had never before seen a white woman, and to say that Grey Coyote was surprised at her appearance would have been an understatement.
He would have assumed the white man’s woman would be as unkempt and perhaps as hairy as her male counterpart. But this simply was not so. The woman was uncommonly pretty. Slim, small and curvy, with tawny hair that reached well to her waist, the woman’s coloring reminded him of a pale sunset—luminous, translucent, mysterious.
Her eyes were as tawny as her hair, like those of a mountain lion’s. Even at this distance, and despite the ever-growing darkness in the one-room hut, Grey Coyote could discern their color. It was a rare shade to be found here on the plains, where the eye colors of dark brown and black dominated.
Warming to his subject, he noted thoughtfully that the white woman’s skin was also quite fair, unblemished. Her cheeks were glowing, as pale and pink as the prairie rose. To his eye, she was a beautiful sight.
But she paid no heed to the people sharing this hut, not sparing so much as a glance at another being, except perhaps the Indian maid who appeared to serve her. In truth, the white woman seemed lost in her own thoughts.
Maybe this was best. From the looks of her, she might prove to be more than a mere distraction to him if he took a liking to her, something Grey Coyote could ill afford.
Slowly, Grey Coyote returned his attention to the matter at hand. The game of Cos-soo had been started a day ago, Grey Coyote being more than ready to gamble with this particular white man.
After all, LaCroix fit the description of the white man whom he sought. Perhaps this was the chance Grey Coyote awaited.
But to find the man cheating?
Clearing his throat, Grey Coyote spoke again. “I admit it is dark, growing ever darker as we sit here. I concede, too, that a good many hours have passed since we decided to begin this game, but do not think that because of this my eyes are so tired that they do not see.”
“What? What is it that monsieur insinuates?” asked LaCroix, his look incredulous.
Grey Coyote nodded toward LaCroix’s sticks with his forehead. “I am keeping track of the number of your sticks.” Grey Coyote raised one of his eyebrows. “There should be ten sticks that you hold, for as you see, you received ten points for your roll. Remember, you had lost all of your other sticks in the previous roll.”
“That is not true. I kept one stick that was left over from before. I should have eleven sticks, not ten.”
Grey Coyote’s stare was bold. “You lost the last bet.”
LaCroix’s eyes grew round, though he could still not match Grey Coyote’s direct gaze. “Is it true? I thought that… Oui, oui,” he blurted out, his words accompanied by a chuckle. “Ye are right. What was I thinking? I do not know how this other stick came to be here, for I had taken all my sticks away. Perhaps two sticks stuck together. Oui, I am sure that is it.”
“Hau, hau,” said Grey Coyote, using the Assiniboine word for “yes”. “Let us hope that no other sticks see fit to stick together.” Grey Coyote once more nodded toward LaCroix, and reaching across the playing space handed LaCroix fifty sticks. “These are for my last roll.”
“Oui, oui.” LaCroix accepted the twigs and commenced to set them out along the ground beside the two men.
Grey Coyote carefully watched the man at his work, not fooled by LaCroix’s attempt at sleight of hand. “Scout LaCroix, I gave you fifty sticks, the amount of my throw. But you have only set out twenty.”
“But, monsieur, I have done this because it is the number of sticks that is appropriate for your roll. Do ye see? Ye rolled five burnt sides, which is four points each, or twenty.”
Grey Coyote narrowed his brow. “You should look closely at the bowl. Do you not see that the big claw stands on end, red side up? As you and I know, that is worth thirty.”
“Is it standing? Surely you jest, monsieur, for I do not see the big claw stand on end.” LaCroix leaned over, as though to more carefully peer into the polished wooden bowl that was used to throw the dice. The man came so close to his target that he bumped into it, though it was surely no accident. The big claw—the one dice that garnered the highest points—fell to a different position. “Monsieur, you make a mistake. You see, the claw, it does not appear to be on end. However, if ye insist, I will take yer word that it landed that way, and will set out the extra thirty sticks.” His eyes didn’t quite meet Grey Coyote’s.
“Do not bother,” Grey Coyote spoke after a long pause. Though LaCroix’s actions more than alarme
d him, Grey Coyote trained his features into a bland expression. He would let the incident pass. After all, it was not in his mind that he had to win everything that this man owned. All he needed was the possession, the one thing that would help Grey Coyote solve the riddle, though at present what that particular possession was escaped him. He said evenly, “We must both pay more attention in the future.”
“Oui, oui, monsieur. And now, if ye insist, ye may have another turn, since ye believed that the big claw stood on end.”
Grey Coyote shrugged. “It is not necessary. I will give you the next roll.”
“Oui, oui,” uttered LaCroix, and after picking up the bowl with four fingers placed inside its immaculately polished rim, he threw the dice up by striking the bowl on the ground.
Maria Marietta Welsford tapped her foot impatiently. Yes, it was storming outside the hut. Yes, their party had needed to stop for the night. This she understood, but this game had been going on for over twenty-four hours, and still her guide wasn’t ready to leave. Time was of the essence for her, and it was all she could do to sit still.
How long would it take her to return to England? Would she arrive there in time to claim the family estate, Rosemead, an endowment she had thought lost to her forever?
It had taken two months for her to receive the solicitor’s letter. Of course she had responded to it at once, but would her reply reach England in time?
And what about her uncle? Was it true that he had disappeared?
It would appear so. According to the solicitor’s note, upon her uncle’s disappearance, legal queries had arisen, which had led to certain discoveries. Her uncle, the current Earl of Welsford, was not and had never been the rightful inheritor of Rosemead, though all those years ago the man had pretended to be.
Worse, during his reign, Marietta’s uncle had mismanaged the estate. He had accrued gambling debts, among other things. Creditors needed paying. It now appeared that the funds for her uncle’s endeavors could no longer be lawfully taken from the inheritance.
