Читать книгу Running Wolf - Jenna Kernan, Jenna Kernan - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Running Wolf looked back frequently throughout the night. He did not know if he expected his raven to fall or fly away. But she did neither. He once caught her looking back over her shoulder at the way they had come. But most often she sat straight and relaxed in the saddle as if she was more comfortable astride than with her feet on the ground.

Seeing her straddling that horse filled his mind with a series of sensual images that made riding exceedingly uncomfortable. Even the chilly night air did not lessen his insistent erection.

Running Wolf did not have a wife, though he needed to see to that soon. He had several women who had made their interest known. He did not favor any especially.

As the light of morning streaked across the sky, they reached the river above camp and made the ford.

By the time they arrived at camp and the women began to call, he was irritable beyond his recollection. Boys, roused from their sleeping skins, hurried out, some without their breechclouts because they were in such a rush to see the warriors returning triumphant.

Soon the stolen horses were being paraded about the center of the village, and those warriors who had families were greeted by their relieved wives and excited children. He saw Red Hawk give his wife the string of beads and shells that had caused Snow Raven to return to protect her grandmother and resulted in her capture. As the horses circled, Snow Raven stood tall and proud despite the insults hurled at her.

Running Wolf’s mother, Ebbing Water, made her way to her son to congratulate him on leading his first raid. She was a solid woman and still very useful. He did not know why she chose not to marry again after his father’s death ten winters past, for she was attractive for an older woman and more than one man had made his interest known. His father had died in battle and his mother held a simmering hatred for all things Crow.

“I see you bring a captive,” said Ebbing Water. “Who took her?”

“I did.”

She did not hide her shock. “You?”

“She is in your care until Iron Bear decides what to do with her.”

She smiled. “I know what to do with her.” Ebbing Water drew out her skinning knife. Running Wolf was out of the saddle and standing in front of his mother before she had time to turn.

“I do not want her scarred.”

She lifted her brows. “She is an enemy.”

“No.”

Ebbing Water studied her son for a long moment. He tried not to shift or fidget under her scrutiny. Did she recognize that he found this captive beautiful...fascinating? Mothers could tell such things with just a look. His mother made a noise in her throat and then turned toward Snow Raven.

Running Wolf had to force himself not to follow. What came next was for the women. The men would only bear witness.

Ebbing Water shouted louder than the other women and called the men to halt the horses. She walked to Snow Raven and quickly sliced the cord that tied her to the saddle. Running Wolf knew how stiff and sore his captive must be. Unlike his men, she had not been allowed off her horse since he’d tied her there late last night.

So when Ebbing Water dragged Snow Raven to the ground, his captive lost her balance and went down. That was all it took for the wolves to close in. The women circled her as the men led the string of horses away.

He heard the curses and saw them spitting on his captive. He watched the vicious kicks and hoped Snow Raven was wise enough to roll into a ball and protect her head. Some women brought sticks to beat this Crow woman while others used their fists.

They tore at her war shirt and ripped the medicine wheel from her hair. They peeled her from her leggings and dragged off her shirt and tore off her moccasins. He could see her seated, knees to chest, as the insults continued and the blows grew wilder.

He did not mean to act.

Even as he called out he told himself to be silent. But still he shouted his mother’s name. She looked to him and he shook his head.

His mother stepped between the captive and the hive of women buzzing and striking like hornets. She called a halt and shooed them off. Gradually they left Snow Raven, dressed only in her loincloth, sitting in the dirt. The fur that wrapped her hair had been ripped away with the strands of shells and her face was bloody and bruised. They had taken everything of value. But she was alive.

He watched as she rose, coming to stand with her bare feet planted and her chin up. Her lip was bleeding. So was her nose. Her hair, once so beautiful and wild, was now a mass of snarls and tangles. Her body, which he had so longed to see, gave him physical pain to witness. Her breasts showed scratches and welts. Purple bruises began to show on her shoulder and thighs.

Yet still she stood as if she was war chief.

It made him feel small and angry. Why had she returned for her grandmother? Why couldn’t she have run? Then, he would not have this trouble or these confusing feelings.

Ebbing Water grasped Snow Raven’s bound hands and tugged her toward their lodge. His captive walked on slim feet, now covered with dust and mud. Her legs were long and smooth and muscular. Running Wolf watched until they were out of sight. Only then did his thoughts return to some semblance of normalcy.

He saw that the horses were watered and then oversaw their hobbling so the new arrivals could graze. They staked the stallions, for they did not want the newcomers fighting with the established leader. That would come in time, for each herd could have only one leader, the strongest. So was the way of the world. Running Wolf must be the strongest if he were to serve his people.

The women had killed a village dog in preparation for the feast to celebrate their return, and he and the other warriors went to the river to bathe away the taint of the enemy. Afterward they went to the council lodge.

The open door of the chief’s lodge was an indication that they were expected. Red Hawk called a greeting and their chief, Iron Bear, replied, welcoming them. The illness that wasted Iron Bear’s flesh now resonated in his voice, which was so changed, Running Wolf nearly did not recognize it.

When Running Wolf entered, Red Hawk had already taken the place beside Black Cloud, the last in the semicircle of the council of elders and the closest place available to their chief. The elders were all great warriors who now served to help lead their people and no longer went on raids. Still, Running Wolf would not care to fight any of them, for despite their age, they were strong. They formed a half circle, and the returning warriors completed the circle.

Iron Bear greeted each man by name. Their chief was seated by a low fire, though the month of the ripening moon was mild and the days warm and bright. This was the first time that their leader had not come to greet them, and now he huddled beneath a buffalo robe like the old man he had rapidly become.

Iron Bear had once been fierce and feared by all his enemies. Now he was unsteady on his feet and his color was bad. Even his eyes were turning an unnatural yellow. Still, he led their tribe with wisdom. But all knew he would not lead for long. A new leader must soon be chosen.

Across from the old chief sat Turtle Rattler, the shaman of their people. Turtle Rattler was much older than Iron Bear but looked youthful by comparison. True, his face was deeply lined and his hair streaked with gray, but his color was a good natural russet. He had ceased his chanting upon their arrival. He wore a medicine shirt that sported two vertical bands of porcupine quills. The adornments had been carefully dyed in green, brown and white before being flattened, soaked and meticulously sewn by his long-time captive into a skillful pattern.

Turtle Rattler had worked very hard to restore the chief to health but confided to Running Wolf that at night the chief’s spirit already ventured onto the Ghost Road. It would not be long, he said, for the chief’s water smelled sweet and he had no appetite. He seemed to be shriveling up before them like a bit of drying buffalo meat in the sun.

All were seated—the elders across from the entrance and the youngest warriors closest to the opening as was proper. The buffalo skin held the heat and the air was stifling. Many of the warriors began to sweat in their war shirts, yet their chief continued to shiver in the warm air.

The coyote staff was passed to Running Wolf. As war chief it was his honor to speak first, and only he would speak until he passed the elaborately beaded staff that held the skull of the clever trickster, coyote. Running Wolf briefly relayed their victory and the number of horses they had taken. He spoke of the brave deeds of his men and the clever theft of livestock, giving credit to Weasel. He considered mentioning Red Hawk’s defiance of his orders to take no captives, but he decided this would only bring more animosity between them.

He passed the coyote staff to Big Thunder, who had no such qualms. He relayed what he had seen.

Red Hawk shifted in his place and his expression became stormier. It was obvious that he could not wait for his turn with the talking stick. But as the stick had begun with Running Wolf, he had to wait and wait. He would, however, get the last word. Since it was so hot, many of the men chose to simply pass the staff along. At last Red Hawk gripped the talking stick.

“This woman dresses like a man. She rides like a man and carries weapons like a man. She is unnatural—a witch. She should be killed as quickly as possible.”

“Who captured this Crow woman who fights like a man?” asked Iron Bear.

All eyes turned to Running Wolf.

“Ah, our new war chief. That is well.”

The chief turned to Running Wolf. “Do you think this woman is a witch?”

Running Wolf did not need the stick, for when asked a question it was only polite to answer. “She could not escape her bonds. She could not fly from her horse like a bird or shift into a coyote and dart into the grass. She is just a woman.”

Red Hawk extended his hand. The stick made its journey to him.

“This captive is young. She should be made a common woman. There are many men in need of relief who are yet too young to provide for a wife.”

His chief frowned. “The captive belongs to the captor. If Turtle Rattler determines that she is not a witch, then let Running Wolf do as he likes with her.”

Running Wolf squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as the relief struck him like a kick in the gut. When he opened them it was to find all staring at him; some looked expectant, hopeful. Did they all want to have their turn with her? The notion filled him with a surging of white-hot rage, and he set his jaw to keep from revealing the strange, unwelcome emotions. Why was it so hard to consider sharing her? She was only a woman, an enemy.

Yet she was more. His heart knew it; his body knew it. Only his mind rebelled.

What was he to do with his captive? How to keep her safe, exclusively his and still appear the war chief?

Running Wolf opened his mouth to say that he would leave the decision up to Iron Bear. But instead he found himself saying, “I would give her to my mother.”

The chief’s brow wrinkled. “Your mother has never needed help caring for her lodge, and you have kept her cooking pot full. Why do you think she needs a woman to help her?”

“I will keep her cooking pot full for as long as the Great Spirit allows. But I am considering a wife and so will be leaving my mother’s tepee. I am afraid she will be lonely.”

“She could take a husband,” said Iron Bear. “It is past time.”

He thought so, too, but when he’d said as much to his mother, her fury had been like the whirlwinds.

Running Wolf nodded. “If she wishes.”

“Now it is time to smoke,” said their shaman.

The pipe was lit and passed. The men talked and joked. Everyone wanted Weasel to again wear the headpiece made from the mane of a black horse. Once the roached hair was tied to his head he looked so much like the Crow warriors that Running Wolf was not surprised he had fooled the young boys watching the herd. With meat for the dogs and a costume designed to deceive, Weasel had walked right among the horses of the Crow.

Running Wolf would normally have found pleasure in the ritual of smoking the sacred tobacco and having an opportunity to hear stories of their success retold for the members of the council of elders. But now he saw the stories as an endless delay that kept him from where he truly wanted to be.

Where was Snow Raven and what was happening to her?

Turtle Rattler had kept the men from her, for now, but what about the women?

Finally the men dispersed, but just before he took his leave, the chief called out to him. Running Wolf gritted his teeth at the delay as Red Hawk swept out the circular door. He caught the eye of Big Thunder and motioned his chin toward Red Hawk. His friend nodded and followed after Red Hawk as Running Wolf sat close to the chief, who now extended his hands to the fire.

He motioned to the upright feathers on Running Wolf’s head. The eagle feathers each carried a red bar, marking his success at killing six warriors in battle. Had he stopped to kill Bright Arrow by slitting his throat or taking his scalp, he would have earned an additional feather, notched for this new coup. But he had chosen to take the woman rather than kill the man.

“I think Weasel has earned a feather for his stealth.”

Running Wolf smiled and nodded.

“And you have led your first successful raid. It is my wish to mark your success with this.” He withdrew an eagle feather topped with tufted white downy feathers and the hair from the tail of a white horse that once belonged to Iron Bear. “I will present it formally at the feast, but I wanted to tell you that it was given to me by Kicking Buffalo after my first successful raid.”

“I am honored,” said Running Wolf, feeling the glow of pride. This was what he wanted, to lead his people. To earn coups with brave deeds. To walk the Red Road as the Creator intended and to bring honor to his people. One day soon he would earn enough feathers to have his own war bonnet, and later, perhaps a coup stick fluttering with a hundred feathers.

“Before you go, I would like to ask you a question.”

Running Wolf leaned forward, anxious for some new quest, another opportunity to prove his worth. He was war chief of his tribe, a great honor. But soon the council of elders would be faced with a dilemma. They must choose the chief’s successor. He knew he was young, but both Black Cloud and Yellow Blanket had told him he was being considered. Red Hawk and Walking Buffalo were, as well.

“Yes, my chief?”

“You say you wish to take a wife. Have you chosen a woman?”

“I have not.” Even as he said this, he realized he should have reflected on why Iron Bear was asking this before he answered. A leader needed to consider his words more carefully.

“The choice of wife is an important one. She must not only warm your blankets and keep your fires. She must make your home from the best buffalo robes you can provide her and she must be strong to bear your children. Most important, she must act as adviser. For though many pretend that decisions are made by the council of elders, we all know that they do not act without considering the opinions of all and, most especially, their wives.”

This was true, so why did Running Wolf feel a rising uncertainty at the direction this conversation had taken?

“My daughter, Spotted Fawn, is young, but she is a good woman, modest and hardworking. And although her mother is gone, she has learned much from my second wife, Laughing Moon. She knows what it means to be the daughter of a chief. Her mother bore me five children, three of them sons. I believe that Spotted Fawn will also bear her husband strong children.”

Running Wolf glanced toward the door. Two days ago he would have gladly taken the chief’s daughter. Before the raid he firmly believed that one woman was much like another. One might be comely and another a better cook. But all and all, they were just women.

Now he felt differently.

An ache gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Why had he ever pulled that woman onto his saddle?

The chief continued on, failing to notice Running Wolf’s distraction. “I would ask that you consider her for your wife, for I would like to see her wed to a good man before I walk the Ghost Road.”

“Your daughter is a virtuous woman. Any man among us would be lucky to call her wife.”

Iron Bear smiled, his withered face now as wrinkled as a dried buffalo berry. “Make it soon, son.”

Running Wolf nodded and took his leave. What had he just done?