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“She is just one woman.”
“White Buffalo Woman was just one woman, too,” said Yellow Blanket, referring to the supernatural prophet who gave them their most sacred rituals and had turned the first man who approached her into a pile of bones.
“Perhaps I will give her to my mother.”
“Throw a wildcat in with a dove and you will have a dead dove.”
With that, he turned and joined the others at the spring.
Running Wolf watched him go, feeling a cold uncertainty in his belly. He stared down at this woman, wanting to know her secrets, wanting to see her body. The need to possess her was strong, and that was proof that Yellow Blanket’s words were true.
It was unmanly to want to possess anything.
A warrior had a generous heart. He shared what he had with his family and his people. And up until this moment, Running Wolf had never wanted anything badly enough to do other than what was wise and what was expected.
“Will you let me have a horse?” she asked.
He scowled at her now.
“You could just cut my bonds.”
“No.”
Her shoulders sank. Then she gathered up her courage from a well that he feared had no bottom.
“I will be trouble.” It was a promise, an echo of Yellow Blanket’s words. But he would not be threatened by a captive.
Weasel returned, leading two horses, his and Running Wolf’s warhorse, Eclipse. On his face was that sly grin he wore when he was up to no good. He led Running Wolf’s horse behind him and extended the reins between him and his captive.
“Who is riding?” he asked, and his grin widened.
Running Wolf did not rise to the bait but accepted the reins. “I thank you for watering Eclipse.”
“Do you think she is as good at wrestling as she is at flying from a galloping horse? Because I am a very good wrestler.” Weasel lifted his eyebrows suggestively.
Running Wolf felt the sharp squeezing grip of ownership across his middle. This was bad. He managed a half smile and again made a sloppy comeback.
“You might end up on your back like Red Hawk.” Running Wolf cringed at his words. First, they had insulted a fellow warrior. Second, they had reminded Weasel of Red Hawk’s embarrassment.
“I would not mind being on my back beneath that one.” Weasel grinned.
Running Wolf reached out to cuff him and Weasel dodged the blow easily.
Running Wolf leaned down and yanked a hank of grass from the prairie and offered it to his captive.
“Rub down my horse,” he ordered.
She held the grass in her joined hands for a moment. Then she lifted her bound hands and let the grass fall from her fingers like rain.
“You may take my freedom. But you will not take my spirit.”
Weasel’s twinkling eyes widened as he stifled a laugh and looked to Running Wolf for his response. They faced off for a long moment. She lifted her chin and angled her jaw as if offering that long vulnerable column to him. He could kill her; her eyes told him that she knew this. Was that what she wanted?
“You know, that one is crazier than I am,” said Weasel.
“Would you die rather than obey?” Running Wolf asked her.
“Yes.”
“Do you wish to die?” Now he found himself holding his breath.
“I do not. But neither do I wish to be your captive.”
“Things are getting more interesting,” said Weasel.
Running Wolf scowled and Weasel laughed and returned to the warriors, likely to tell what he had witnessed. Having a captive who would not obey was bad. Dangerous, even. He should punish her right now, but he found the prospect distasteful and thought on Yellow Blanket’s words again. If he did not punish her, she would not work. If she did not work, the others in the tribe would see she suffered. But they would see she suffered in any case. The best thing for her was for him to follow the advice of Yellow Blanket.
But he did not. Instead, he pushed her to the ground and bound her feet. Then he left her in the tall grass, leading his horse away so he could join the others.
As he chewed on hunks of dried buffalo and drank his fill, he watched the waving grass around his captive. When the grasses fell still he went to check on her and found that she seemed to be asleep. He returned to the group to find Weasel asking to see the trophy that Red Hawk had captured. Red Hawk’s face colored. Running Wolf sensed an impending fight. Weasel loved to wrestle nearly as much as he loved to steal from the Crow. It seemed he had directed his energy from the captive to Red Hawk.
Yellow Blanket told Weasel to watch the horses, diffusing the impending quarrel. Red Hawk showed the strands of long tubular beads that came from the French traders. The multiple strands were separated with circular shells that had come from the clay river people far to the south. The necklace was beautiful, but why Red Hawk had wanted it was beyond him. It was a woman’s adornment and of no use to a warrior. Perhaps it was for Buffalo Calf, his wife. He didn’t know and didn’t ask.
Instead, the men counted the horses and argued over which was the best. Running Wolf was the only one to like the mare that his captive rode. She was sound and strong and seemed to have good confirmation. Of course, no warrior would ride a mare into battle. But for hunting and traveling, the dapple gray would be useful, especially in the snow, when she would all but disappear. Of course, it was up to the chief to divide the horses among those who won them and those that needed them. He wondered who would get the big blue roan ridden by the son of the chief of the Crow. Yellow Blanket, he decided.
The men now set about haltering the horses and tying them in strings for the longer trip home. They broke into teams and he paired with Big Thunder, his best friend. Big Thunder had an overlarge mouth and intent eyes. Big Thunder wore a series of four bear teeth about his neck in a necklace nearly identical to the one Running Wolf wore, for they had come from the same hunt and the same bear.
Big Thunder threw a rope over a large buckskin and Running Wolf quickly fashioned a halter from another rope woven of buffalo sinew.
“Do you remember how we trapped that bear?”
Running Wolf nodded, focusing on tying the halter to the string of ponies already assembled. “It was hungry.”
“There is more than one kind of hunger, my friend.”
Running Wolf’s finger’s stilled and he glanced up at his friend.
“Be careful with that one or she may end up wearing your claws about her neck.”
For a time, Snow Raven wiggled in the grass like a snake. Then she stopped, saving her energy. The bonds were tight and well tied. Chewing on the rawhide at her wrist had only made her teeth sore. The sunlight warmed her face. Insects buzzed about her and grasshoppers leaped from one grass stalk to another.
She pictured the village as she had last seen it, from the withers of the warrior’s horse. Her brother sprawled bleeding on the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut against the terrible