Page 3 of The Spirit of the Wolf

But she paid no heed to the people sharing this hut, not sparing so much as a glance at another being, except perhaps the Indian maid who appeared to serve her. In truth, the white woman seemed lost in her own thoughts.

Maybe this was best. From the looks of her, she might prove to be more than a mere distraction to him if he took a liking to her, something Grey Coyote could ill afford.

Slowly, Grey Coyote returned his attention to the matter at hand. The game of Cos-soo had been started a day ago, Grey Coyote being more than ready to gamble with this particular white man.

After all, LaCroix fit the description of the white man whom he sought. Perhaps this was the chance Grey Coyote awaited.

But to find the man cheating?

Clearing his throat, Grey Coyote spoke again. “I admit it is dark, growing ever darker as we sit here. I concede, too, that a good many hours have passed since we decided to begin this game, but do not think that because of this my eyes are so tired that they do not see.”

“What? What is it the monsieur insinuates?” asked LaCroix, his look incredulous.

Grey Coyote nodded toward LaCroix’s sticks with his forehead. “I am keeping track of the number of my sticks which sit before you.” Grey Coyote raised one of his eyebrows. “There should be eleven sticks that you hold for me, for as you see, I received five points two rolls before this one. I had six sticks before and five makes eleven. Yet, there are only ten set before you.”

“Thees is not true, monsieur. Ye do not add correctly. Ye have only the ten.”

Grey Coyote’s stare was bold. “Show me your hands and what is in your lap.”

LaCroix’s eyes grew round, though he could still not match Grey Coyote’s direct gaze. “I have nothing in my lap, and”—

“Stand up!” Grey Coyote’s voice brooked no defiance.

LaCroix slowly stood to his feet, and sure enough there was the sound of a stick hitting the floor. “How could thees be? Eet must have fallen to my lap. Please excuse, monsieur.”

“Hau, hau,” said Grey Coyote, using the Assiniboine word for “yes.” “Let us hope there are no other sticks that are falling into your lap without your knowledge and going unnoticed by you.” Grey Coyote once more nodded toward LaCroix, and, reaching across the playing space, he handed LaCroix fifty sticks. “These are for my last roll. There should now be sixty-one sticks in front of you.”

“Oui, oui.” LaCroix accepted the twigs they used in the game and commenced to set them out along the ground in front of him.

Grey Coyote carefully watched the man at his work, not fooled by LaCroix’s attempt at sleight of hand. “Scout LaCroix, I gave you fifty sticks, the amount of my throw. But you have only set out twenty of them.”

“But, monsieur, I have done this because it is the number of sticks that is appropriate for your roll. Do ye see? Ye rolled five burnt sides, which is four points each, or twenty.”

Grey Coyote narrowed his brow. “You should look closely at the bowl. Do you not see that the big claw stands on end, red side up? As you and I know, that is worth thirty.”

“Is it standing? Surely you jest, monsieur, for I do not see the big claw stand on end.” LaCroix leaned over, as though to more carefully peer into the polished wooden bowl that was used to throw the dice. The man came so close to his target that he bumped into it, though it was surely no accident. The big claw—the one dice that garnered the highest points—fell to a different position. “Monsieur, ye make a mistake. Look here, the claw, it does not appear to be on end. However, if ye insist, I will take yer word that it landed in the way ye say it did, and I will set out the extra thirty sticks.” His eyes didn’t quite meet Grey Coyote’s.

“Do not bother,” Grey Coyote spoke after a long pause. Though LaCroix’s actions more than alarmed him, Grey Coyote trained his features into a bland expression. He would let the incident pass. After all, it was not in his mind that he had to win everything this man owned. All he needed was the possession, the one thing that would help Grey Coyote solve the riddle, though at present what this particular possession was escaped him. He said evenly, “We must both pay more attention in the future.”

“Oui, oui, monsieur. And now, if ye insist, ye may have another turn, since ye believed that the big claw stood on end.”

Grey Coyote shrugged. “It is not necessary. I will give you the next roll.”

“Oui, oui,” uttered LaCroix, and, after picking up the bowl with four fingers placed inside its immaculately polished rim, he threw the dice up by striking the bowl on the ground.

Maria Marietta Welsford tapped her foot impatiently. Yes, it was storming outside the hut. Yes, their party had needed to stop for the night. This she understood, but this game had been going on for over twenty-four hours, and still her guide wasn’t ready to leave. Time was of the essence for her, and it was all she could do to sit still.

How long would it take her to return to England? Would she arrive there in time to claim the family estate, Rosemead, an endowment she had thought was lost to her forever?

It had taken two months for her to receive the solicitor’s letter. Of course she had responded to it at once, but would her reply reach England in time?

And what about her uncle? Was it true that he had disappeared?

It would appear so. According to the solicitor’s note, upon her uncle’s disappearance, legal queries had arisen, which had led to certain discoveries. Her uncle, the current Earl of Welsford, was not and had never been the rightful inheritor of Rosemead, though all those years ago the man had pretended to be.

Worse, during his reign, Marietta’s uncle had mismanaged the estate. He had accrued gambling debts, among other unpleasantries. Creditors needed paying. It now appeared that the funds for her uncle’s endeavors could no longer be lawfully taken from the inheritance.

To Marietta, it all seemed too fantastic to be true. After all these years, to learn that she was Rosemead’s true inheritor?