Page 73 of The Spirit of the Wolf

Yet, though anxiousness for her welfare tore at him, Grey Coyote knew he must not panic. It would create disaster.

Using the plains system of hand signs once again, Grey Coyote gave Yellow Swan to understand that she was to follow him. Without complaint, she nodded, leaving Grey Coyote to conclude she must have desired greatly to leave the camp.

“You must do exactly as I do,” he signed with his hands, since to speak would be a catastrophe. “Their confusion and anger will be their weakness. We must use that. Do you understand?”

Again, she nodded.

They left the safety of the cave. On stomach and elbows, they slithered across the moonlit landscape, ignoring the pandemonium in the enemy encampment.

But he could not lead their party and also erase their trail. Giving Yellow Swan the sense of the direction they should take, Grey Coyote followed her, correcting her course now and again.

It had been a wise maneuver to center their trail over the open and defenseless ground. Not one warrior, not even the novice scout, thought to check in this particular direction.

At last, he and Yellow Swan climbed over the crest of the ridge, where Marietta still lay in wait. She gasped as they came into view, but he forgave her—he could see the panic in her eyes.

Signing toward Yellow Swan, he gave her to understand the general direction they were to take, and again, he let her lead their party. Silently, they crept away from the encampment.

They stole across the prairie, slowly, carefully, cutting a circuitous path back to the area of the rose bushes. At length, they trailed into their own little gully. The distance between this and the enemy’s location was not as great as it should be, so Grey Coyote would not permit open talk.

Slow gestures, fingers to one another’s lips if necessary, he cautioned.

However, he couldn’t stop Marietta from throwing her arms around Yellow Swan and hugging her, nor could he keep Marietta from whispering, “It’s Marietta, my friend. Remember me?”

“English…friend? Save…” There were tears in the Indian maiden’s eyes.

“Yes,” said Marietta. “It’s me.” It seemed to Grey Coyote that Marietta almost wept too.

But he would allow no more talk, and with slow, sweeping gestures, he gave Yellow Swan to understand that she was to disguise herself, much as he and Marietta had already done.

“I will help you to do this,” whispered Marietta.

Yellow Swan nodded, and Marietta led her friend to the stream where, only hours ago, a completely different couple had made magnificent love.

Watching them, Grey Coyote wondered if somehow the stream would retain their presence forever. Indeed, for him, this spot would always remain sacred.

But enough wasted time. Every moment counted, and Grey Coyote set about making preparations to abandon camp. After all, no matter how unlikely, the enemy might yet possess one amongst them who could track a scout.

With a loud bang, the beast, half man, and perhaps half bear, threw the wolf pelts onto the trading post’s counter. He grunted.

“What’cha give me fer these here pelts?” growled the beast.

The proprietor, a Mr. LaPrenier, approached the trading post’s platform, but he did so with some misgiving. Accustomed to the wild look of the trappers in general, there was yet something about this particular man that seemed too savage, as though the trader stared into the eyes of a creature instead of a man.

Perhaps it was the brute’s smell, or maybe it was his size.

Or mayhap it was the man’s clothing. So greased were the beast’s garments from wear and use, what had most likely been a buckskin tan color was now an ugly black. Worse, so stiff was the hide of these, from perhaps sweat and other unmentionable things, the clothing looked more like a sheet of metal than one of an animal skin.

Still, LaPrenier was a businessman, and in as friendly a fashion as possible, he came to stand before the beast, the trading post’s counter between them.

“Been wolfin’?” asked LaPrenier pleasantly.

The creature didn’t answer, simply grunted, showing yellow, crooked teeth.

Carefully, LaPrenier lifted up the skins one by one, setting them out before him. Without appearing to do so, he studied each one before he said, “These is good wolf pelts, monsieur. What do ye have here, thirty-five, forty?”

“What’s the matter with yer? Can’t ya count?”

“Of course, monsieur. Of course. Is only that the customer usually tells me how many he bring. I trust to their honor.”