Page 27 of The Spirit of the Wolf

Marietta followed, uncertain she was ready to see a rabbit gutted. It was one requirement to eat meat; it was another to behold the animal from which the meat came.

Once at the rivulet, Grey Coyote squatted beside the flowing water, and gesturing toward her, urged her to come closer. Again, she did as asked.

“I did not realize how new this is for you.” He unsheathed his knife. Marietta drew back from the weapon, but all he said was, “A good tool is necessary if one is to skin the game well.”

Turning the handle of the dagger, he offered its hilt to her. When she hesitated, he encouraged her with a few simple hand motions to take it.

Gingerly she grabbed hold of the object, but her fingers came into contact with his. At once, a charge like lightning raced over her spine, and without hesitation, her eyes sought his.

Had he felt it, too?

He was, indeed, staring back at her, and his gaze was intense. But again, he said not a word to her about it, and Marietta slowly let out her breath.

At last, when he chose to speak, his words were soft. “The first requirement to know about hunting and cleaning game is to realize that all life must eat in order to live. To survive, one must take from nature. But it does not also follow that life must be taken without thought. Life is precious to all. All life has a spirit, otherwise it would not be alive. And all life has a right to live.”

She nodded.

He continued, “And so if one is to take a life, no matter if it be plant or animal, the need must be great. Once the deed has been done, one must always thank the animal or plant which was killed, for the creature has given of himself so another might survive. This is why prayer is necessary. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she said gently, “although I have never heard of doing this before now.”

He lifted his shoulders. “I know. My Assiniboine sister is married to a white man.” Then, turning his attention again to the game, he handed one of the rabbits to her. “We begin here.” From his belt, he grabbed hold of yet another blade. With this, he ran its sharp edge from the anus of the animal up toward the head, cutting along its belly.

While she watched, Grey Coyote gutted the animal, pulling the skin from the body and washing the meat off in the creek. He even tore off any remaining fur. Then, without a word to her, he reached for the rabbit she was supposed to be skinning, and he did the same to it.

“Now,” he said, when it was done at last. “We shall find two long sticks and put the meat on those, place them in the fire, and we shall have a good meal.”

Marietta nodded. She offered him back his knife.

He shook his head. “Do you have a good blade?”

“Ah, no, I don’t.”

“Then you should keep this one. Here.” From the cord around his waist, he untied one of the buckskin sheaths, handing her its casing. “Keep the dagger in there. It will help to ensure it is kept sharp.”

“Yes.” She glanced down at the sheath. It was a beautiful piece of work that he loaned her, soft to the touch and decorated all over with red, green and yellow beads. She ran her fingers over those beads.

“Come,” he said after a while, getting to his feet. Once standing, he reached out toward her.

With some anxiety, Marietta stared at his proffered hand. She knew what would happen if she touched it. Awareness of him would swamp her. Sensation would engulf her. After all, it took little to recall what had happened to her with the merest of his touches only moments ago.

Her gaze caught on to his. Good heavens, he appeared as apprehensive as she felt.

Perhaps it was this that decided her. At last, placing her hand in his, she allowed him to help her to her feet. If her breasts tingled because of it, and if a most private place between her legs ached for a moment, she decided to do as she believed he had done earlier—she would ignore his effect on her.

Chapter

Seven

Gradually, a cool, thunder-free summer night descended upon them, its balmy breeze carrying with it the fragrance of wildflowers, dry grass and the fresh scent which always accompanies a babbling brook. The constant chirping of the crickets and locusts was broken here and there by the ceaseless wafting of the wind, as well as the shrill call of a nighthawk. In the distance, a wolf howled while a coyote yelped.

Ever alert for danger, Grey Coyote sat across from the white woman, the small fire they had built blazing between them. As its smoky aroma enveloped his senses, Grey Coyote listened to the sounds of the night, attentive to any clamor or movement that was not a part of nature. Despite this, he was terribly conscious of every gesture the woman made, every nuance of her expression.

He should speak to her. He knew he should. But though he searched his mind for a topic of conversation, he could think of nothing to say.

Grey Coyote wished he were more skilled in carrying on a discussion, yet as he sat with Little Sunset, it was as though an old crow had stolen away his tongue.

What was wrong with him? There were many topics of interest he could say and probably should say to the woman. Truly, the very least he could do was converse with the woman.