Running Wolf

About his strong neck was a cord of tanned leather threaded through five bear claws. Each claw was separated by a red bead. She could not see his leggings or moccasins but had seen both while hanging over his saddle like a dead buck. Beneath his war shirt, she knew he wore his medicine bundle. All warriors did. Inside were the sacred objects that helped protect him. Each warrior was different, so each bundle was different and private. Her own brother would not even tell her what lay inside his, but he was never without it.

The warrior started toward her, his stride long and sure. He had the confidence of leadership. Were he not the war chief, she was certain that he would have held some other position of authority. It was clear that all respected him, even the older warrior, Yellow Blanket, who had advised him to let her go.

Running Wolf continued forward with such intent aim that she thought he might better be called Stalking Wolf.

He stared at her with fixed attention so that for a moment it seemed as if the rest of the prairie did not exist. She met his gaze, noticing the fine strong angle of his jaw and the broad chin. His elegant nose bisected his symmetrical features showing flaring nostrils that reminded her of a horse at full gallop. His brows peaked in the center as if she was some puzzle he must solve. She liked the shape of his eyes and the way that they were bright and dark all at once.

He drew closer and she noticed something else—the buzz of energy that seemed to shimmer between them, like the waves of heat off rocky places in the summer. The tension began in her belly and pulled outward until she had to clench her fists against the need to lift her arms in welcome. He would not let her go free, and for one ridiculous moment she was glad.

This made no sense. He had captured her. She should spit at him or hurl insults or weep and tear her hair. Instead, she stood and stared like a lovesick calf. He had captured her. Was that what made him different than other men, or was there some other reason for the tingling sensation of her skin?

Would he really keep her or would he turn her over to someone else? In her tribe, her father let the warriors keep what they captured and distribute possessions as they saw fit.

He stopped very close. She had to tilt her head to look at him. He frightened her, this wolf of a man. But she also wondered if her fate would be better with this man than with any other among his warriors. Certainly it would be better than with the one who tried to strike her. The one she had knocked to the ground.

She smiled in satisfaction at the memory and heard his intake of breath.

She knew the possible fates that awaited her at his village. She knew that her test of endurance had only just begun. She lifted her bound hands between them, but kept herself from laying them on his chest.

“How are you called?” he asked.

His voice resonated in her, rumbling through her chest like a roll of thunder. She pressed her clasped hands to her chest, squeezing tight to hold on to her courage.

“Snow Raven.”

“That is not a name for a woman.” He frowned as he swept her with his gaze. “But it suits you, for you are not like any woman that I have ever met. You are causing trouble, you know. No one knows what to do with you. Some say you will steal a horse and run, but then we would catch you and you would die. Some say they would like to ride you as you rode that gray mare.”

That prospect frightened her more than death. She did not want to be debased and used in such a manner. She squeezed her eyes shut at the images now assaulting her mind.

“Ah,” he said. “So you do feel fear. For a time I thought you were immune to such emotions.”

She looked at him now. “A warrior does not admit to fear.”

“But a woman does. She cries and uses her tears to gather sympathy. Yet you do not.”

“Would that work?”

“It would make you less interesting. And you are very interesting.”

“I do not want your interest.”

He laughed. “Then, you should not have unseated one of my warriors. Who was the old woman?”

“My grandmother, Truthful Woman.”

“She will not be happy at your sacrifice.”

“She raised me and I love her. I could do no less.”

“Apparently you are alone in that, because none of the other women even slowed down. They ran like rabbits.”

“That is what they are expected to do. To flee, so the men can fight.”

“Yet you did not do so. So you are brave but not wise.”

Raven made no reply.

“You can ride and you carry a bow. Can you shoot?”

“I do not think I should tell you what I can do.”

“Hunt?”

She found herself nodding.

He smiled and her stomach twisted. His smile was dazzling, bright and beautiful, making him suddenly seem approachable and even more handsome. She gritted her teeth against the attraction. He was a Sioux snake, enemy to the Large-Beaked Bird people.

“I like to hunt,” he said. “I once brought down an elk with seven points.”

“Nine,” she said, and then pressed her joined hands before her mouth. Why had she told him that?

“Nine? I have never even seen an elk with nine points.”

“Because you stay in the grasses instead of venturing into the mountains.”

He nodded. “That is true, because this is Sioux land.” His smile was gone. “You left your mountains and ventured into our territory. We cannot allow that, Snow Raven. Your chief knew this and still he put your people in harm’s way.”

“My...chief is wise and brave.” Had she almost said her father? She must stop and think before she spoke. It was a skill all warriors cultivated. Yet she went blathering about with the first thing that popped into her head.

“Brave, yes. Just as you are. And you must continue to be brave when the women in my village welcome you.”

She looked at her bound hands. “Will you cut my bonds so I can defend myself?”

“No.”

Why had she thought he would?

“Because if you harm any of them, they will kill you.”

“So I am to let them beat me?”

“What choice do you have?”

She was about to say that he could prevent it. But she could not bring herself to ask his help.

“When?”

“Tomorrow by sunrise. I will put you on your horse but I will have to tie you to the saddle. Do not fall asleep.”

“I will not.”

He smiled again. “Very good, Snow Raven. Eat this.” He passed her a long piece of jerked meat. “Then go to the spring and drink all you can. We ride all night.”

He leaned down and untied the binding that held her feet together. She considered kicking him and running, but a glance told her that the other warriors watched the proceedings. They could not see their war chief now as he disappeared from their view into the tall grasses. But she had no chance of escape. The men had all the horses and running about like a prairie chicken was a waste of energy.

She did as he bid her, eating and then drinking. She even walked past the men on her return. Her horse nickered a greeting. She mounted unassisted and waited as Running Wolf tied her bound hands to the pommel of her saddle. She would not be able to drop to the ground and vanish in the darkness. At least the saddle was comfortable.

Her brother had made the wooden shell specifically to fit this horse and Snow Raven’s smaller frame. It had a high pommel and high cantle so she could hook her leg over the back of the saddle and hold the front while hanging on the side of her mount. This position was ideal for creeping up on deer. Her brother had taught her and said he used the same position to make it harder for the Sioux to shoot him from his horse. She and her grandmother had made the buckskin covering. She was especially proud of the series of brass tacks decorating the front pommel. Raven realized with some sorrow that this saddle, the buffalo-skin saddle blanket and the horse were no longer hers. She, herself, was no longer hers. From this day forward until the day she died or was rescued, she belonged to the enemy.

Running Wolf finished tying her, giving her enough lead that she could move her hands midway to her face. It was a boon that she did not deserve. She recalled her brother speaking of the capture of Sioux women. They ran behind the horses or were tied like meat behind the saddle. They were given no food and water. Until this moment she had seen nothing wrong with such treatment of enemies.

The party set out through the long grass. Raven already missed the forest they had left behind. She paid close attention to the path of the sun. She did not know how the warriors knew the way to their tribe, for the grass looked much the same in every direction. All about them was high buffalo grass and scrub brush and more grass. Rolling hills that stretched out to the setting sun.

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

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.

He passed the coyote staff to Big Thunder, who had no such qualms. He relayed what he had seen.

Red Hawk shifted in his place and his expression became stormier. It was obvious that he could not wait for his turn with the talking stick. But as the stick had begun with Running Wolf, he had to wait and wait. He would, however, get the last word. Since it was so hot, many of the men chose to simply pass the staff along. At last Red Hawk gripped the talking stick.

“This woman dresses like a man. She rides like a man and carries weapons like a man. She is unnatural—a witch. She should be killed as quickly as possible.”

“Who captured this Crow woman who fights like a man?” asked Iron Bear.

All eyes turned to Running Wolf.

“Ah, our new war chief. That is well.”

The chief turned to Running Wolf. “Do you think this woman is a witch?”

Running Wolf did not need the stick, for when asked a question it was only polite to answer. “She could not escape her bonds. She could not fly from her horse like a bird or shift into a coyote and dart into the grass. She is just a woman.”

Red Hawk extended his hand. The stick made its journey to him.

“This captive is young. She should be made a common woman. There are many men in need of relief who are yet too young to provide for a wife.”

His chief frowned. “The captive belongs to the captor. If Turtle Rattler determines that she is not a witch, then let Running Wolf do as he likes with her.”

Running Wolf squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as the relief struck him like a kick in the gut. When he opened them it was to find all staring at him; some looked expectant, hopeful. Did they all want to have their turn with her? The notion filled him with a surging of white-hot rage, and he set his jaw to keep from revealing the strange, unwelcome emotions. Why was it so hard to consider sharing her? She was only a woman, an enemy.

Yet she was more. His heart knew it; his body knew it. Only his mind rebelled.

What was he to do with his captive? How to keep her safe, exclusively his and still appear the war chief?

Running Wolf opened his mouth to say that he would leave the decision up to Iron Bear. But instead he found himself saying, “I would give her to my mother.”

The chief’s brow wrinkled. “Your mother has never needed help caring for her lodge, and you have kept her cooking pot full. Why do you think she needs a woman to help her?”

“I will keep her cooking pot full for as long as the Great Spirit allows. But I am considering a wife and so will be leaving my mother’s tepee. I am afraid she will be lonely.”

“She could take a husband,” said Iron Bear. “It is past time.”

He thought so, too, but when he’d said as much to his mother, her fury had been like the whirlwinds.

Running Wolf nodded. “If she wishes.”

“Now it is time to smoke,” said their shaman.

The pipe was lit and passed. The men talked and joked. Everyone wanted Weasel to again wear the headpiece made from the mane of a black horse. Once the roached hair was tied to his head he looked so much like the Crow warriors that Running Wolf was not surprised he had fooled the young boys watching the herd. With meat for the dogs and a costume designed to deceive, Weasel had walked right among the horses of the Crow.

Running Wolf would normally have found pleasure in the ritual of smoking the sacred tobacco and having an opportunity to hear stories of their success retold for the members of the council of elders. But now he saw the stories as an endless delay that kept him from where he truly wanted to be.

Where was Snow Raven and what was happening to her?

Turtle Rattler had kept the men from her, for now, but what about the women?