The Spirit of the Wolf

by Karen Kay

  “Yes, miss. Anything.”

  “Could you please return inside and inform the bourgeois that I fear something is wrong?”

  “But—”

  “Please?”

  “Of course, miss. I will do so at once.”

  “Thank you. It will set my mind at ease.”

  After exchanging a polite smile, the man turned to do her bidding.

  Again, Marietta inhaled deeply. And though the night air felt good on her lungs, she couldn’t help worrying. Was there danger, and if there was, was Grey Coyote safe?

  “The Indians have broken camp,” said a low voice behind her, as Grey Coyote stepped out of the shadows. “That is why it is so silent, for the animals have run away at their approach.”

  The wind rushed into her face, yet she turned quickly. “Where have you been?”

  “Looking for the man we seek.”

  “And have you found his trail?”

  “I have.”

  “Good. Good. When do we leave?”

  Grey Coyote paused. “Then you are ready to go?”

  “Of course I’m ready to go. Why wouldn’t I be ready to go? The sooner we get this thing over with, the sooner I can depart for England.”

  He shrugged. “I had feared that perhaps the lure of your own civilization might be too much, that you would not wish to travel again. At least not as a scout.”

  Marietta jerked her head sideways. “Then you feared incorrectly. I said I would help. I will help.”

  He grinned at her, and reaching forward, ran the back of his fingers over her cheek. Fleetingly, she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. It felt so good.

  She said, “I have missed you.”

  He nodded. “I, too, have missed you.”

  Music from the house filtered over the courtyard, softening the atmosphere, and Marietta swayed to the rhythm. “I have been dancing all night.”

  “I know,” he replied. “I have been watching you.”

  “Have you?” She smiled up at him. “Why?”

  His look at her was intent. “I find you beautiful. Perhaps that is the reason. Maybe also I am a little jealous of these men who have the honor of holding you in their arms, when I can only stand in the shadows and observe.”

  “Well, that can be remedied immediately.”

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Do you dance, Mr. Coyote?”

  “Certainly, I dance. I have danced since I have been able to walk.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” she agreed. “But can you dance the white man’s dance?”

  “I have done so in the past. You forget that my brother-in-law runs a trading post.”

  “Yes, yes. I should have remembered. But which dance do you do?”

  His glance at her was surprised. “There is more than one?”

  “Undoubtedly, there is more than one. This one they’re playing now is a waltz. Do you waltz, Mr. Coyote?”

  “I can try.” He stepped toward her and took her outstretched hand in his own. “Will you teach me?”

  “It would be my pleasure, my husband.” Grinning up at him, she fell into his arms.

  It was heavenly to touch him, to be touched by him, and he danced as though he had been born to it, keeping time to the three-quarter beat as easily as if he were walking. The moonlight shone down on them tenderly, silhouetting them against the shadows of the night.

  What was it about moonlight that cast this man in such a handsome image? He had braided his hair tonight. It was the first time she had seen him with it thus, for he usually left the length of it long and unbound, and more recently, he had fixed it with clay all through it.

  Dear Lord, he was probably the handsomest man she knew.

  As they twirled round the shadows of the parade grounds, it was as though this place were their own private haven. Glancing up at him, smiling at him, watching him, Marietta spun into a self-evident truth that she should have admitted to herself long ago.

  She loved this man.

  She had probably loved him for quite a while now. She had suspected it days ago, but she hadn’t been willing to acknowledge it…not until now.

  Lord help her, she felt compelled to ensure he knew it. “Mr. Coyote, I have a confession to make.”

  “Do you?” he replied. “And what is that?”

  “I…I am in love with you.”

  His smile was pure admiration directed toward her. “I know.”

  “You know? How do you know?”

  “Because of who you are,” he said. “You permit me liberties. And you are not the sort of woman to do that without having love in your heart.”

  She chortled, half laugh, half sigh. “I guess there’s no fooling a scout, is there?”

  “One can try,” he acknowledged with a grin.

  She shook her head at him. “When do we leave to find this man?”

  “Tonight. Prepare Yellow Swan, and we will quit the fort as soon as the others here are settled in for the night. I will slip into your room for you.”

  “Can you do that?”

  He simply smiled at her.

  “If you can do that, you should have come to me each night. I have a bed. Do you understand? I have a bed. We could have made love on a bed.”

  “And alerted the household to what is between us,” he completed the thought. “Have you not noticed that the bourgeois of this place does not think well of the Indian? Beware, my wife, the bourgeois here is not a stupid man. As it is, even dancing as we are, I fear we flaunt the customs of this place. He watches us even now.”

  “Does he? Where?”

  “From the veranda.” Grey Coyote nodded toward it.

  “Very well,” she said, as they stepped around their dance floor of dirt and rocks. “I will say no more on it. But I will also be ready to leave with you this night.”

  “That is good, but be very careful. It is possible you will be watched.”

  “I will be careful.”

  “Good.” He smiled down at her. She couldn’t help herself; she beamed right back.

  William Laidlaw stepped onto the veranda for a breath of air and a smoke. Striking a match, he cupped his hands around the flame, leaning his cigar down into the glow. He detected movement to his right, in front of the clerk’s house.

  Glancing that way, he looked, not certain about what it was he was seeing. He gazed that way again.

  Good Lord. What was this? The Indian and the lass dancing, touching?

  The Indian was clearly overstepping his bounds.

  And what was the lass doing, allowing him to touch her?

  It was possible, he supposed, that Miss Marietta felt beholden to the Indian—if the man had saved her life as she said. Even if this were the case, Laidlaw could little understand her actions, unless…

  Had the Indian already lain with the maid?

  Aye, it had to be. Look at them.

  The thought made him burn. An Indian with a white woman?

  One of his men, Allen Adams, approached, and Laidlaw turned toward him. “Where ye goin’, man?” asked Laidlaw.

  “Oh, pardon, sir, I didn’t see you there, and I have been looking for you.”

  Laidlaw nodded. “What is it ye need, Adams?”

  “I have a request from the lady.”

  “A request?”

  “Yes, sir. She fears there is something wrong, because it is too quiet. She has asked me to tell you this.”

  Again, Laidlaw nodded. “There is a great deal wrong, but ’tis not because ’tis quiet. Gaze out yonder, man.” He pointed.

  Adams did so. “That is the Indian that brought Miss Welsford to the fort, is it not?”

  “That it be, Adams. That it be.” Laidlaw rubbed his chin. “But I fear the lady is confused and needs reminding of who she is. She has asked me about boats to St. Louis. It seems she has great need of traveling there.”

  “But there are no steamboats going that way for another year.”

  “Aye,” said Laidlaw. “That i
s why I think that yerself and a few other men should step in and be of service to the lady. Mayhap when done, the lady might remember who she be and the rules of privilege she was born to. Do ye think ye can refresh her memory?”

  Adams nodded. “And what about the Indian?”

  “Kill him, and hang him from the nearest post. An example must be set.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  With nothing more to say but a great deal to do, Adams turned and stepped away from Laidlaw, heading in the direction of the warehouse.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Marietta was sitting up and awake, awaiting Grey Coyote, when four men burst into her room.

  She screamed. Yellow Swan screamed. Marietta kept screaming.

  Fiercely, two of the men gagged the women, effectively silencing them. One of the brutes threw a sheet over Marietta, wrapping her in it then tying it with a belt. She kicked out at her assailant, but very quickly her feet were bound as well.

  What was going on? This couldn’t be the work of Grey Coyote. He would never approve such manhandling. Soon, however, the smell of tobacco and rum gave away the identity of the men.

  They were white men. But that knowledge only confused her more. White men? Treating her as if she were a common criminal?

  “Got her?” one of the men asked.

  “Yep,” came the reply. “Got the Injun woman too.”

  “Then c’mon. Let’s get ’em to the mackinaw. Adams has it tied up and waiting on the river.”

  “They’re goin’ by mackinaw?”

  “Fastest, cheapest way. Better than a canoe.”

  Marietta listened to the conversation. What was amazing, and perhaps telling, was that none of these men were disguising their voices. No low whispers. No attempt at secrecy.

  The bourgeois knew, she realized, and he approved—likely he gave instruction for this act.

  One of the men hoisted her up over his shoulder, the action interrupting her thoughts. He said to some unknown source, “Did’cha kill the Injun?”

  “Nope,” came another voice. “Not yet. Couldna find him.”

  Kill the Indian? Were they speaking of Grey Coyote?

  “Well, find him, man,” said the one carrying her. “If ye dunna kill the savage, chances are he’ll come after these two women. Especially if he considers ’em both his squaws. Don’t know ’bout ye, but I dunna want to meet up with some warrior out to save his women. Don’t think any of our scalps would be safe.”

  “Ye’ll be safe enough,” said another unknown voice. “Four against one?”

  Would they? wondered Marietta. She wasn’t so certain.

  Thank the Lord they couldn’t find him. In truth, they would probably never find him. Chances were he had sensed the presence of the men seeking him long before they had ever come close to him.

  But what had happened? Why was this occurring? And why now?

  As though in answer to her question, Grey Coyote’s words from earlier this evening came to mind, haunting her. “As it is, even dancing as we are, I fear we flaunt the customs of this place. He watches us even now.”

  Quickly, Marietta pieced together what few facts she knew and realized Laidlaw had not liked what he’d seen this night. It was the only explanation that made sense. She had heard that the men who ran these trading posts considered themselves to be something like kings. She had simply not given the matter proper thought…unfortunately.

  Without warning, the man who carried her threw her down none too gently. Furthermore, whatever she had landed on was hard, though it rocked.

  They must be aboard a boat of some kind. What had one of the men mentioned? A mackinaw? Although she wasn’t certain what kind of a boat this was, one thing was clear—it was wet. Already, her dress was soaking up water like dry cotton.

  “Who’s goin’ on this trip?” came one of the voices.

  “Jenkins, Adams, you and me,” answered another man. “That’s all. A bit of cargo for St. Louis, but not much, since we just sent some down with the Yellowstone. Mostly we’re supposed ta play host ta the women.”

  Raunchy laughter accompanied this bit of news.

  “There’s Jenkins now,” continued the voice. “We’re set to go, but where’s Adams?”

  “He went lookin’ fer that Injun.”

  “Well, go get him,” said another voice. “We’re supposed ta set this boat off now. The bourgeois said there was ta be no delay.”

  Aha, thought Marietta. She had been right. This was Laidlaw’s work.

  “But he said ta kill that Injun too.”

  “Ah, you know we’ll never find the savage. Damned Injuns. No one hides better’n they do. You go tell Adams that, hear? We need ta get this boat off now, before that Injun finds us.”

  Yes, thought Marietta. I’d be worried about that too, if I were you.

  “Ah, here’s Adams now. C’mon, man, get aboard. Laidlaw wants this mackinaw ta set off now.”

  The boat pitched back and forth as someone stepped onto the boat—probably Adams—nice, friendly Allen Adams.

  “Did’cha find that Injun?”

  “No,” came the voice of Adams. “But you’re right—we best not waste any more time looking for him. Let’s get going.”

  Marietta, still covered in a sheet, felt the boat set off from the shore.

  The mackinaw turned out to be a cheaply made flat-bottomed boat about forty feet long and pointed at the bow. A long rudder extended out of the back, or the stern, of the boat. It required at least two oarsmen to guide her and was steered by a man who sat on a high perch astern. At the bow of the boat was the hold, which in this particular mackinaw had been set aside to house the women and an odd assortment of cargo.

  At the moment, however, the entire crew, as well as the women, sat on a flat, grassy bank. Evening was descending on them, and as was custom along the river, the crew had rowed the boat ashore.

  A large fire sat in the center of their small circle, and an iron pot was extended over it, cooking their supper of vegetables and pork. The crew was an odd assortment of men, Marietta had decided. Two of them wore red bandannas tied around their heads; another sported a black hat with the brim turned up. This man was Adams, and as she recalled from the previous evening, Adam’s face bore a mark of kindness.

  All of the men wore buckskin breeches and buckskin shirts that looked as if they’d seen better days. Three of the men sat smoking T-stemmed pipes, while a fourth man worked on the boat, securing it.

  An overhanging growth of cottonwood and willow trees sheltered their little nook, creating a sort of park. It was a picturesque spot, and under most any other circumstance, Marietta might have been content to simply sit and enjoy the scenic beauty.

  But she wasn’t content, nor was she inclined to relish the idle chatter of the men. Not at the moment. She was boiling mad.

  Interrupting one of the men, she said, “You shouldn’t build such a big fire.”

  All of the crew except Adams laughed at her. One of the bullies said, “And what would ye be knowing about it?”

  “Apparently more than you,” she replied, but it was said more under her breath than aloud.

  “What was that?” asked the man.

  “A large fire can be seen from far away,” explained Marietta, “and its scent will warn any Indians traveling in the area that you are here. It’s better to build a small, smokeless fire.”

  The man snickered. “Ye been travelin’ with that Injun too long, I expect, ma’am.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Marietta, “but at least I felt safe under his protection.”

  “Don’t ye worry, ma’am. Ye’re safe with us. If’n them Injuns choose ta surprise us, we can get away in our boat.”

  “Get away in the boat?” Stunned at the stupidity of the statement, Marietta stared at the one who uttered it.

  “That’s right,” proffered the man.

  “I beg to differ, sir,” she replied. “By the time it would take you to run to the boat, you would most likely be dea
d. Besides, don’t you realize that any Indian could follow you? You do know they can swim, don’t you?”

  For a second, the bully looked ridiculously blank. After a brief pause, he grinned at her. “Them Injuns aren’t brave enough ta follow us. ’Sides, they’d flee before our guns.”

  “Maybe.” Marietta shook her head and gazed away from the man. “Thank heavens your guns are big enough to make up for your lack of brains and skill.”

  “What was that, miss?”

  “Nothing,” Marietta replied, though she caught Yellow Swan’s gaze, and the two women shared a secret smile.

  Yellow Swan raised her hands, making hand motions—with her palms facing each other, she drove her hands forward in zigzag motions. It was the sign for “follow”. Then she formed the sign for “husband”.

  Marietta nodded.

  “What did that savage say?” asked one of the crew who wore a bandanna.

  “I don’t know, sir,” lied Marietta. “But I have heard that all the tribes use this form of language. It might do you well to learn it.”

  “Like hell ye don’t know what she said,” the man cursed. When Marietta remained silent, he took out his frustration another way. He leaned over to one side and spit.

  Marietta, momentarily repulsed, closed her eyes.

  With the exception of Adams, these men were as different from Grey Coyote as they could possibly be, she thought, her heart warming to the subject. Grey Coyote, who at all times had presented a pleasant manner, would have never spit in her presence. Not like that.

  To give the crewman his due, however, she considered that perhaps Grey Coyote could act as grossly as did these men. But if he had ever done so, she wouldn’t know of it. In her presence, Grey Coyote had always been a gentleman.

  She sighed. Dear Lord, she missed him. Traveling without him wasn’t the same, wasn’t nearly as interesting, exciting or as beautiful.

  For one, she missed Grey Coyote’s constant reference to the different natural phenomena of the plains, his pointing out things she had neglected to see, his educating her of the grasslands, his showing her how and why the wilderness was not really wild.

  Perhaps to abate the feeling of loneliness, she decided to try to converse more intelligently with her captors. “Excuse me, sir,” she spoke to Adams. “Your name is Allen Adams, isn’t it?”