Running Wolf

They passed a large mound covered with prairie dogs that chirped and clucked and vanished at their passing. They flushed grouse but none of the men shot at the retreating birds. She saw pronghorn in the distance moving away from them. She glanced forward to see Running Wolf glancing back at her.

“Do you wish you had your bow?” he asked.

“Yes.” Oh, yes. But she would not use it on the pronghorn.

He lifted a brow as if trying to gauge her intent from her reply.

The Sioux continued until the receding light made riding too dangerous. It was easy for a horse to step in a hole and break a leg. The men dismounted, ate and drank. They walked and stretched and relieved themselves. Running Wolf allowed her down to relieve herself, as well. She was glad for the darkness but still embarrassed. He said nothing to her as she remounted and he tied her back to the saddle. But his hands lingered longer than necessary over hers and his thumb brushed the back of her hand in a secret caress. His touch did strange things to her skin and the speed of her heart. How could so small a gesture make her feel so much?

Her reaction shamed her. This was the enemy of her people. The man who had unseated her brother and destroyed their fishing camp. She straightened in the saddle and looked down her nose at him.

The corner of his mouth quirked and he walked away.

The men gathered in a circle to talk and wait for the moon to rise enough to make travel possible. She listened to them repeat tales of their exploits. The men seemed to have forgotten about her and she again considered trying to turn the entire line of eight horses. She knew Song would respond to the pressure of her legs, moving in any direction she chose. But what would the stallion do? Would he turn and walk beside her mare? She weighed her chances.

She had the darkness in her favor, but the line of horses would make travel very difficult. She did not know the way to go in the dark and there was no cover on this open prairie. She recalled Running Wolf’s promise—that if she ran, she would die. But the darkness was tempting, so tempting.

Soon Hanwi, mother moon, rose in a perfect orange ball of light. Running Wolf rose from the circle of men and the others followed suit. He came to her with that slow, confident step, sweeping through the tall grass. He stopped before her and rested a hand on her right foot, which was still sheathed in her beaded moccasin and stirrup. His grip was strong and possessive.

“Perhaps brave and wise,” he whispered.

Chapter Four (#ulink_51e9a955-3f74-54cc-9377-d3bdffbebcf0)

Running Wolf looked back frequently throughout the night. He did not know if he expected his raven to fall or fly away. But she did neither. He once caught her looking back over her shoulder at the way they had come. But most often she sat straight and relaxed in the saddle as if she was more comfortable astride than with her feet on the ground.

Seeing her straddling that horse filled his mind with a series of sensual images that made riding exceedingly uncomfortable. Even the chilly night air did not lessen his insistent erection.

Running Wolf did not have a wife, though he needed to see to that soon. He had several women who had made their interest known. He did not favor any especially.

As the light of morning streaked across the sky, they reached the river above camp and made the ford.

By the time they arrived at camp and the women began to call, he was irritable beyond his recollection. Boys, roused from their sleeping skins, hurried out, some without their breechclouts because they were in such a rush to see the warriors returning triumphant.

Soon the stolen horses were being paraded about the center of the village, and those warriors who had families were greeted by their relieved wives and excited children. He saw Red Hawk give his wife the string of beads and shells that had caused Snow Raven to return to protect her grandmother and resulted in her capture. As the horses circled, Snow Raven stood tall and proud despite the insults hurled at her.

Running Wolf’s mother, Ebbing Water, made her way to her son to congratulate him on leading his first raid. She was a solid woman and still very useful. He did not know why she chose not to marry again after his father’s death ten winters past, for she was attractive for an older woman and more than one man had made his interest known. His father had died in battle and his mother held a simmering hatred for all things Crow.

“I see you bring a captive,” said Ebbing Water. “Who took her?”

“I did.”

She did not hide her shock. “You?”

“She is in your care until Iron Bear decides what to do with her.”

She smiled. “I know what to do with her.” Ebbing Water drew out her skinning knife. Running Wolf was out of the saddle and standing in front of his mother before she had time to turn.

“I do not want her scarred.”

She lifted her brows. “She is an enemy.”

“No.”

Ebbing Water studied her son for a long moment. He tried not to shift or fidget under her scrutiny. Did she recognize that he found this captive beautiful...fascinating? Mothers could tell such things with just a look. His mother made a noise in her throat and then turned toward Snow Raven.

Running Wolf had to force himself not to follow. What came next was for the women. The men would only bear witness.

Ebbing Water shouted louder than the other women and called the men to halt the horses. She walked to Snow Raven and quickly sliced the cord that tied her to the saddle. Running Wolf knew how stiff and sore his captive must be. Unlike his men, she had not been allowed off her horse since he’d tied her there late last night.

So when Ebbing Water dragged Snow Raven to the ground, his captive lost her balance and went down. That was all it took for the wolves to close in. The women circled her as the men led the string of horses away.

He heard the curses and saw them spitting on his captive. He watched the vicious kicks and hoped Snow Raven was wise enough to roll into a ball and protect her head. Some women brought sticks to beat this Crow woman while others used their fists.

They tore at her war shirt and ripped the medicine wheel from her hair. They peeled her from her leggings and dragged off her shirt and tore off her moccasins. He could see her seated, knees to chest, as the insults continued and the blows grew wilder.

He did not mean to act.

Even as he called out he told himself to be silent. But still he shouted his mother’s name. She looked to him and he shook his head.

His mother stepped between the captive and the hive of women buzzing and striking like hornets. She called a halt and shooed them off. Gradually they left Snow Raven, dressed only in her loincloth, sitting in the dirt. The fur that wrapped her hair had been ripped away with the strands of shells and her face was bloody and bruised. They had taken everything of value. But she was alive.

He watched as she rose, coming to stand with her bare feet planted and her chin up. Her lip was bleeding. So was her nose. Her hair, once so beautiful and wild, was now a mass of snarls and tangles. Her body, which he had so longed to see, gave him physical pain to witness. Her breasts showed scratches and welts. Purple bruises began to show on her shoulder and thighs.

Yet still she stood as if she was war chief.

It made him feel small and angry. Why had she returned for her grandmother? Why couldn’t she have run? Then, he would not have this trouble or these confusing feelings.

Ebbing Water grasped Snow Raven’s bound hands and tugged her toward their lodge. His captive walked on slim feet, now covered with dust and mud. Her legs were long and smooth and muscular. Running Wolf watched until they were out of sight. Only then did his thoughts return to some semblance of normalcy.

He saw that the horses were watered and then oversaw their hobbling so the new arrivals could graze. They staked the stallions, for they did not want the newcomers fighting with the established leader. That would come in time, for each herd could have only one leader, the strongest. So was the way of the world. Running Wolf must be the strongest if he were to serve his people.

The women had killed a village dog in preparation for the feast to celebrate their return, and he and the other warriors went to the river to bathe away the taint of the enemy. Afterward they went to the council lodge.

The open door of the chief’s lodge was an indication that they were expected. Red Hawk called a greeting and their chief, Iron Bear, replied, welcoming them. The illness that wasted Iron Bear’s flesh now resonated in his voice, which was so changed, Running Wolf nearly did not recognize it.

When Running Wolf entered, Red Hawk had already taken the place beside Black Cloud, the last in the semicircle of the council of elders and the closest place available to their chief. The elders were all great warriors who now served to help lead their people and no longer went on raids. Still, Running Wolf would not care to fight any of them, for despite their age, they were strong. They formed a half circle, and the returning warriors completed the circle.

Iron Bear greeted each man by name. Their chief was seated by a low fire, though the month of the ripening moon was mild and the days warm and bright. This was the first time that their leader had not come to greet them, and now he huddled beneath a buffalo robe like the old man he had rapidly become.

Iron Bear had once been fierce and feared by all his enemies. Now he was unsteady on his feet and his color was bad. Even his eyes were turning an unnatural yellow. Still, he led their tribe with wisdom. But all knew he would not lead for long. A new leader must soon be chosen.

Across from the old chief sat Turtle Rattler, the shaman of their people. Turtle Rattler was much older than Iron Bear but looked youthful by comparison. True, his face was deeply lined and his hair streaked with gray, but his color was a good natural russet. He had ceased his chanting upon their arrival. He wore a medicine shirt that sported two vertical bands of porcupine quills. The adornments had been carefully dyed in green, brown and white before being flattened, soaked and meticulously sewn by his long-time captive into a skillful pattern.

Turtle Rattler had worked very hard to restore the chief to health but confided to Running Wolf that at night the chief’s spirit already ventured onto the Ghost Road. It would not be long, he said, for the chief’s water smelled sweet and he had no appetite. He seemed to be shriveling up before them like a bit of drying buffalo meat in the sun.

All were seated—the elders across from the entrance and the youngest warriors closest to the opening as was proper. The buffalo skin held the heat and the air was stifling. Many of the warriors began to sweat in their war shirts, yet their chief continued to shiver in the warm air.

The coyote staff was passed to Running Wolf. As war chief it was his honor to speak first, and only he would speak until he passed the elaborately beaded staff that held the skull of the clever trickster, coyote. Running Wolf briefly relayed their victory and the number of horses they had taken. He spoke of the brave deeds of his men and the clever theft of livestock, giving credit to Weasel. He considered mentioning Red Hawk’s defiance of his orders to take no captives, but he decided this would only bring more animosity between them.