Page 7 of The Spirit of the Wolf

“Like a grandmother, a guardian, a protector for a young girl when she is with a man.”

“Ah, chaperone. Yellow Swan can be…chaperone.” Yellow Swan pointed to herself. “This one…think she with you…to cook…mend moccasins…help with…chores. Not realize…she chaperone.”

“Oh, I see. There has been a misunderstanding between us. No wonder you have looked at me strangely these past few nights when I have slept alone.”

“It is so.”

“Well, please keep this well in mind. There is nothing between myself and Jacques LaCroix. Nothing. Truly.”

“Han. Yellow Swan understand. White woman not married. Not worry…about…reputation.”

Again, Marietta sighed. “Well, at least what you say is partially right. I don’t worry about my reputation…here.” With a last fleeting glance at the two men, Marietta ran her hand over the smoothness of the hide beneath her. It was as soft as silk. “Yellow Swan, will we sleep on this bed tonight?”

Yellow Swan nodded. “Han. This bed…ours…tonight. We…no sleep…outside like…last night. We in home…Big Eagle. Him…took pity on us…welcome us. If…we pull skin…around bed…” she gestured upward, “…no eyes…see. Have much…privacy.”

“Is this what the hide curtain is for?”

Again, Yellow Swan nodded. “Pull it…around…you undress. No one…see. We sleep.”

“Good,” said Marietta. “Good.” With one final flick of her gaze at the two men, Maria Marietta Welsford proceeded to do exactly what Yellow Swan was urging her to do: she pulled the curtain around them.

Chapter

Three

Grey Coyote was not so caught up in the game of Cos-soo that he was unaware of exactly when the white woman arose and pulled the curtain around the bed to give her privacy. Since he had begun this game with LaCroix, he had only seen the woman seated, and he was curious to note if, once she stood to her full height, the white woman was as small and slender as she appeared to be. Grey Coyote was not disappointed. Despite the odd manner in which the woman was dressed—for he did not understand the white woman’s style of clothing—he could clearly see that her breasts were full, her waist tiny.

Her hair, her glorious, golden hair, spilled down over her back and shoulders when she stood, as though her mane were a cascade of evening sunlight. It even shone, here in the firelight, imbued for a moment with a life of its own.

In spite of himself, Grey Coyote was more than aware of his physical response to her beauty…a response he quickly quelled.

Staring at LaCroix, Grey Coyote asked, “Does your wife know that you gamble?”

“Monsieur?”

Grey Coyote nodded toward the women. “Your wife. Does she know the stakes involved in this game?”

“I am n—” The Frenchman stopped speaking suddenly. He frowned. “My wife does not interfere, monsieur. She is a good woman.”

Grey Coyote nodded. “You are a lucky man.”

“Oui. I am a lucky man. Very lucky.” He smiled, the gesture emphasizing yellow and uneven teeth. “And so you should beware.”

It was this last statement that set Grey Coyote to grinning, as well. “Hau, hau,” he said, “I am well warned.”

“Oui, monsieur. Oui.”

Thunder boomed outside. Lightning struck in the distance, only to crash into the ground much closer to hand. Water poured down from the heavens as though seeking vengeance. Darkness had advanced across the land like a curtain, and the constant patter of the rain against the roof became a backdrop to the highly charged game that was taking place within the Minnetaree mud hut.

Here, inside the hut, while the white woman and her maid slept, excitement rose, for LaCroix was losing desperately—everything he had. Their host, Big Eagle, had spread word of the game throughout the village, and, within a very short time, a crowd of people—twenty to thirty men and women—had swarmed around the players.

It was to be expected, for it was not often that men risked a game of Cos-soo, since one of the opponents would almost always end in ruin. Many of the villagers had begun placing their own bets on the outcome of the game, causing the tension in the room to reach fever pitch.

Would LaCroix go the entire distance? Would he lose all he had? Or would he call a halt to it before the last of his possessions were taken from him?

Already he had lost most of his clothing, his knife, his powder horn, his rifle and his horses. Would he gamble away the only possessions he had left, two more horses, his whiskey, his two women?

It was LaCroix’s roll. Nary a sound, outside of the crackle of the fire, could be heard. Nervously, LaCroix clutched the wooden bowl as he spanned his fingers around its polished rim. So tightly did he grip it, that his fingers were white.