Running Wolf Read online

  She lifted her chin still higher. “I am one of the Center Camp Apsáalooke of the Low River tribe.”

  “A Crow. Just like any other,” he said, and she nodded. “Yet the son of the chief risked his life to save you.”

  Pain broke across her expression but she mastered it swiftly. Running Wolf narrowed his eyes as suspicions clouded his thoughts. Who was she to this man, the one Running Wolf had fought and bested to claim her?

  Yellow Blanket glanced to Running Wolf. “Did you not recognized their war chief?”

  Running Wolf gave a shake of his head. He had only seen their new war chief at a distance. But Yellow Blanket had scouted their village prior to this raid.

  Yellow Blanket posed the woman another question. “How did you learn to fight like a warrior?”

  This she did not answer. “I am an Apsáalooke woman, like any other.”

  “You do not dress like any other. You do not ride like any other. You do not speak like any other. I have taken many captives. They wail. They cut their hair. They rub ash upon their face and then they live or die in our tribe. They never meet a warrior’s eye and would not think to speak to one as an equal. Yet this you do. I do not know what you are, but you are not a woman like any other.”

  This took the stiffness from her spine. She glanced across the waving grasses, toward her camp, now in ruin. Was she thinking of the warrior sprawled facedown in the dirt?

  Yellow Blanket turned to Running Wolf. “She can ride as well as any man here. She carried a bow, so assume she knows how to use one. How will you keep her from stealing a horse and riding home?”

  “She will not know the way to go.”

  Yellow Blanket’s look said he thought differently, but he said nothing.

  “What would you do with her?” asked Running Wolf, already regretting his question. If one did not wish an answer it was better not to ask.

  “I would let her go. And I would bet my first coup feather that she makes it to her camp before we reach ours.”

  Running Wolf felt his fingers tighten on the woman’s wrists. A wellspring of defiance gurgled inside him. Yellow Blanket’s words were wise, but he knew he would not take his advice.

  “It is a war chief’s duty to earn the respect of his men. You have lost one warrior today. I do not know how you will fix what has passed between you and Red Hawk. But I do know that keeping this woman will make that harder. Red Hawk’s wife is the sister of our chief. He has influence.”

  “I will think of something.”

  “You know that her life will be worse at our camp. If you care for her, do not bring her there.”

  Running Wolf pulled the woman closer to his side.

  Yellow Blanket sighed, recognizing, Running Wolf suspected, that his words were wasted. “You have taken her. But our chief will decide her place. Will he choose to give her to the one who took her, a young single warrior? He is ill but still wise. He has spoken of you in high regard and believes you will be a great leader one day. All leaders must choose what is best for their people over what is best for them.” Yellow Blanket pointed at the woman beside him. “She is beautiful, but she is the enemy. Remember who you are and what she is.”

  “She is just one woman.”

  “White Buffalo Woman was just one woman, too,” said Yellow Blanket, referring to the supernatural prophet who gave them their most sacred rituals and had turned the first man who approached her into a pile of bones.

  “Perhaps I will give her to my mother.”

  “Throw a wildcat in with a dove and you will have a dead dove.”

  With that, he turned and joined the others at the spring.

  Running Wolf watched him go, feeling a cold uncertainty in his belly. He stared down at this woman, wanting to know her secrets, wanting to see her body. The need to possess her was strong, and that was proof that Yellow Blanket’s words were true.

  It was unmanly to want to possess anything.

  A warrior had a generous heart. He shared what he had with his family and his people. And up until this moment, Running Wolf had never wanted anything badly enough to do other than what was wise and what was expected.

  “Will you let me have a horse?” she asked.

  He scowled at her now.

  “You could just cut my bonds.”

  “No.”

  Her shoulders sank. Then she gathered up her courage from a well that he feared had no bottom.

  “I will be trouble.” It was a promise, an echo of Yellow Blanket’s words. But he would not be threatened by a captive.

  Weasel returned, leading two horses, his and Running Wolf’s warhorse, Eclipse. On his face was that sly grin he wore when he was up to no good. He led Running Wolf’s horse behind him and extended the reins between him and his captive.

  “Who is riding?” he asked, and his grin widened.

  Running Wolf did not rise to the bait but accepted the reins. “I thank you for watering Eclipse.”

  “Do you think she is as good at wrestling as she is at flying from a galloping horse? Because I am a very good wrestler.” Weasel lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

  Running Wolf felt the sharp squeezing grip of ownership across his middle. This was bad. He managed a half smile and again made a sloppy comeback.

  “You might end up on your back like Red Hawk.” Running Wolf cringed at his words. First, they had insulted a fellow warrior. Second, they had reminded Weasel of Red Hawk’s embarrassment.

  “I would not mind being on my back beneath that one.” Weasel grinned.

  Running Wolf reached out to cuff him and Weasel dodged the blow easily.

  Running Wolf leaned down and yanked a hank of grass from the prairie and offered it to his captive.

  “Rub down my horse,” he ordered.

  She held the grass in her joined hands for a moment. Then she lifted her bound hands and let the grass fall from her fingers like rain.

  “You may take my freedom. But you will not take my spirit.”

  Weasel’s twinkling eyes widened as he stifled a laugh and looked to Running Wolf for his response. They faced off for a long moment. She lifted her chin and angled her jaw as if offering that long vulnerable column to him. He could kill her; her eyes told him that she knew this. Was that what she wanted?

  “You know, that one is crazier than I am,” said Weasel.

  “Would you die rather than obey?” Running Wolf asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to die?” Now he found himself holding his breath.

  “I do not. But neither do I wish to be your captive.”

  “Things are getting more interesting,” said Weasel.

  Running Wolf scowled and Weasel laughed and returned to the warriors, likely to tell what he had witnessed. Having a captive who would not obey was bad. Dangerous, even. He should punish her right now, but he found the prospect distasteful and thought on Yellow Blanket’s words again. If he did not punish her, she would not work. If she did not work, the others in the tribe would see she suffered. But they would see she suffered in any case. The best thing for her was for him to follow the advice of Yellow Blanket.

  But he did not. Instead, he pushed her to the ground and bound her feet. Then he left her in the tall grass, leading his horse away so he could join the others.

  As he chewed on hunks of dried buffalo and drank his fill, he watched the waving grass around his captive. When the grasses fell still he went to check on her and found that she seemed to be asleep. He returned to the group to find Weasel asking to see the trophy that Red Hawk had captured. Red Hawk’s face colored. Running Wolf sensed an impending fight. Weasel loved to wrestle nearly as much as he loved to steal from the Crow. It seemed he had directed his energy from the captive to Red Hawk.

  Yellow Blanket told W
easel to watch the horses, diffusing the impending quarrel. Red Hawk showed the strands of long tubular beads that came from the French traders. The multiple strands were separated with circular shells that had come from the clay river people far to the south. The necklace was beautiful, but why Red Hawk had wanted it was beyond him. It was a woman’s adornment and of no use to a warrior. Perhaps it was for Buffalo Calf, his wife. He didn’t know and didn’t ask.

  Instead, the men counted the horses and argued over which was the best. Running Wolf was the only one to like the mare that his captive rode. She was sound and strong and seemed to have good confirmation. Of course, no warrior would ride a mare into battle. But for hunting and traveling, the dapple gray would be useful, especially in the snow, when she would all but disappear. Of course, it was up to the chief to divide the horses among those who won them and those that needed them. He wondered who would get the big blue roan ridden by the son of the chief of the Crow. Yellow Blanket, he decided.

  The men now set about haltering the horses and tying them in strings for the longer trip home. They broke into teams and he paired with Big Thunder, his best friend. Big Thunder had an overlarge mouth and intent eyes. Big Thunder wore a series of four bear teeth about his neck in a necklace nearly identical to the one Running Wolf wore, for they had come from the same hunt and the same bear.

  Big Thunder threw a rope over a large buckskin and Running Wolf quickly fashioned a halter from another rope woven of buffalo sinew.

  “Do you remember how we trapped that bear?”

  Running Wolf nodded, focusing on tying the halter to the string of ponies already assembled. “It was hungry.”

  “There is more than one kind of hunger, my friend.”

  Running Wolf’s finger’s stilled and he glanced up at his friend.

  “Be careful with that one or she may end up wearing your claws about her neck.”

  Chapter Three

  For a time, Snow Raven wiggled in the grass like a snake. Then she stopped, saving her energy. The bonds were tight and well tied. Chewing on the rawhide at her wrist had only made her teeth sore. The sunlight warmed her face. Insects buzzed about her and grasshoppers leaped from one grass stalk to another.

  She pictured the village as she had last seen it, from the withers of the warrior’s horse. Her brother sprawled bleeding on the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut against the terrible image. Was he alive? Had they killed him because of her?

  He had asked her to run. She had disobeyed. Had she traded her grandmother’s life for her brother’s? Snow Raven began to weep. She wept for the lodges toppled like trees before the whirlwinds and for the family she had lost and the brother she had endangered. Shame devoured her. She could live with her capture if she knew he was alive. But to be responsible for the death of her brother was a stone in her heart. She did not think she could bear it.

  Her tears washed her cheeks and dried in the sunlight. Snow Raven curled into a ball, encircling her pain as she waited. After a time she realized she was alone, and so she relieved herself in the grass. Then she stood to see where the men had gone. She could hear them, of course, but it was not until she stood that she saw they had taken the forty horses and roped them into five strings of eight. Song, her mount, was there with the others, second in the line behind the black-and-white stallion belonging to the one who had taken her. Running Wolf, that was what the older warrior had called him. He had a wolf on his shield, as well. Wolves had strong medicine.

  She found him easily. He stood with the others, but seemed unlike them. Was it his carriage or his size? This was her first real opportunity to look upon him. He stood twenty paces away with the others, and she noted first that he was broad across the shoulders and narrow at the hip. He moved with an easy grace and confidence of one gifted in movement. It explained how he had plucked her from the ground while on horseback and done so as easily as she might pluck a flower from a field.

  She did not make any sound, but he turned to her and they stared across the distance. Her skin prickled. Perhaps he had been checking her location at regular intervals. He pointed to her horse as if telling her that he had taken that, as well. She nodded. Not knowing if she should thank him or hurl insults at him.

  None of the Sioux cut their forelocks, and that was one of many reasons the warriors of her tribe called them women. But this hairstyle of the Sioux was not feminine in the least. In fact, she found the look of all the warriors elegant and masculine.

  Running Wolf wore his long black hair in twin ropes wrapped in the pelts of beaver and tied with long strips of red cloth. His war shirt was decorated in elaborate bands of quillwork in red, green and white. The shirt was not stained with colored clay like the other men wore, but remained a natural tan color with long fringe at the arms and the side seam. Grandmother said the fringe took the rainwater away from the seams, but it was also for show. Over this shirt he wore a breastplate made of a series of long cylindrical white trade beads punctuated with red glass beads and round brass beads. The breastplate could deflect an arrow, if it was not shot at close range.

  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, rumbl
ing 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.