The Spirit of the Wolf Page 3

  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 that 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 things he had left, two more horses, his whisky, 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.

  After a moment, Grey Coyote said, “From where I sit, unless you have something else you would like to offer, the game is over.”

  LaCroix’s lip turned up, and he snarled. “The game is not yet over, so do not rush me, monsieur. Ye do not see before ye a beaten man. I have other riches I have not yet tapped.”

  Grey Coyote nodded. “My mistake. Proceed.”

  LaCroix placed two sticks forward. “These represent my two horses. Good horseflesh.”

  Again Grey Coyote nodded.

  This was it. LaCroix inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and slammed the bowl on the ground several times, spinning it carefully.

  A hushed quiet fell over the crowd. Bending, both men stared into the bowl.

  “Hau, hau,” said Grey Coyote. “I see five burnt sides. That is four each, or twenty. Five eye sides up at two each, or ten; four concaves up, at one each, or four. You must give me thirty-four sticks for your roll, and I will place them beside your others. But I see nothing else in this roll. Do you agree?”

  “That is right,” said LaCroix. “Is a good roll, what say ye?”

  Counting out the number of sticks that LaCroix handed him, Grey Coyote set them next to the others that were accumulating in LaCroix’s court, a total of only forty sticks. “It is, indeed, a good roll.”

  “It is yer turn, monsieur.” Anxiety colored LaCroix’s voice.

  Slowly, pretending he was unaware of his opponent’s tension, Grey Coyote took possession of the Cos-soo bowl. More speedily than before, he banged the dish on the floor several times, he, too, turning the Cos-soo bowl round and round. There. It was done.

  Both men bent over and peeped into the bowl.

  Grey Coyote sat back, reading off the amount of his roll to the crowd at large. “The big claw on end, or thirty; two red claws at five each, or ten. Three blue sides up, at three each, or nine. Four concaves up at one each, or four. It is a total of fifty-three sticks.”

  LaCroix’s face fell. The crowd murmured in the background, and Grey Coyote carefully counted the sticks to give to LaCroix, watching to ensure that LaCroix set them all in Grey Coyote’s court.

  “Monsieur wins again.”

  Grey Coyote barely acknowledged the man. Instead, he paused, then in a low voice said, “I think we are finished. You have nothing else of value to offer.”

  “That is not true, monsieur. I have yet a most prized possession.”

  Grey Coyote raised a single eyebrow. “And that is?”

  “My wife.”

  Grey Coyote didn’t pretend to misunderstand the man, and though his heart skipped a beat at the very thought of the white woman, all he uttered was, “I do not wish to have your wife. Nor any woman.”

  “Not even the golden-haired wench?”

  Thin-lipped, Grey Coyote hesitated.

  LaCroix, perhaps sensing the mood change, pressed his advantage. “What have ye to lose? Is she not worth the last gamble?”

  “She very well might be,” agreed Grey Coyote. “But the manner of my life does not allow for a woman in it—not even one as fine as she is. Let us call an end to this game. Keep your woman.”

  LaCroix leaned forward. “What is this? Do ye try to make me think ye do not like white women?”

  Grey Coyote shrugged, refusing to rise to the bait.

  “Yet I seen ye lookin’ at the wench.”

  “And who would not?” countered Grey Coyote, a little too quickly. “It is a rare thing to behold a white woman on the plains.”

  “Is it? I wonder… Ye speak English very well, monsieur. That means ye have some acquaintance with the white people. Are ye afraid of them?”

  Grey Coyote scowled. He still would not take the bait that LaCroix so willingly offered. He was not to be roused into anger, nor bow to the need to justify himself.

  As for the woman, though Grey Coyote’s body screamed with interest, he would pass up the opportunity. Indeed, it was his only choice. He, more than anyone, knew that his heart was not available to any woman, that his duty to his people prevented him from taking a wife.

  Hiya. No. Once this day, he had already had cause to suppress his physical desire, at least in relation to that woman. And this from a mere glance, and at a distance across the room. What would be his predicament were she to be in his constant presence?

  He said, “I will not gamble for the woman, and I am not afraid of the white people. I have a relative who is white—he is a trader and married to my adopted sister.”

  LaCroix squinted. “And he taught ye English?”

  Grey Coyote sat up straight. “He did.”

  “Well, my friend, I am afraid that it is not yer decision to make. Ye committed to this game, same as I. If I want to put up my wife as stakes, it is my decision to make, not yers.”

  Grey Coyote grimaced. What LaCroix said was true. By the rules of the game, once begun, Cos-soo was continued until one or the other of them was ruined. And LaCroix, being almost destroyed, claimed the right to either stop or continue to try to recoup his losses.

  Grey Coyote said, “You are willing to lose such a fine woman?”

  “I have already told ye that I am.” LaCroix pushed forward a stick. “This represents my fine, white-skinned wife.”

  Briefly, Grey Coyote’s gaze met that of LaCroix’s. With a simple nod, Grey Coyote accepted the bet.

  LaCroix smiled and reached for the Cos-soo bowl. Whispering a prayer, the man breathed in deeply, then slammed the bowl on the floor, turning it this way and that.

  At last, it was done.

  The crowd’s murmuring stopped. A hush fell over the room. Both men sat forward to inspect the contents of the bowl. With only a slight pause to note the exact count of the roll, Grey Coyote called out, “The big claw is on end, which is thirty sticks. There are three red claws, or fifteen, a total of forty-five. No burnt sides up, no blue sides up, one eye up, or no points, and three concaves up, or three. A total of forty-eight sticks.”

  Grey Coyote counted out the stakes and handed them to LaCroix. It would be a difficult roll to beat, and secretly Grey Coyote thought his chances were slim.

  “It is your roll, monsieur,” said LaCroix unnecessarily.

  “Hau, hau,” agreed Grey Coyote, and picking up the smoothly polished Cos-soo bowl, he, too, breathed out deeply. Then, after pounding the object on the ground and twisting it round and round, he let go, the pot falling still.

  In the background the fire blazed and the rain pattered down from the heavens. Both men, as well as most of the audience, leaned forward, peering into the dish.

  As though in a daze, LaCroix scooted so far forward he might have fallen onto the bowl, unsettling it, as he had done once before this evening. This time their host, Big Eagle, was there, and catching hold of LaCroix, Big Eagle pulled the Frenchman back, away from the center.

  “Pardone,” said LaCroix. “I felt suddenly dizzy.”

  Big Eagle said nothing, but in his gaze, there was censure. If LaCroix took note of it, he said nothing. Instead, he shook off his host’s hold, and looking down into the bowl, called out, “The big claw is on end, or thirty points. There are no red claws, so there are no points there
. Two burnt sides up at four each equals thirty-eight sticks.” He paused. “There are no blue sides up, but there are five eye sides up, or ten sticks. It is a total of forty-eight.”

  Was it a draw?

  No one spoke, not a word. Not even Grey Coyote, although with brow lifted, Grey Coyote fixed an unwavering gaze on LaCroix.

  LaCroix cleared his throat, opened his mouth, but no words issued forth. It was left to Big Eagle to settle the matter, and stepping forward, he called out, “There are also three concaves up, at one each, thereby making the Assiniboine’s roll fifty-one sticks. Grey Coyote wins the game, the horses, the rifle, the powder horn, the clothes, the white woman.” He fell silent for a moment. “It is done.”

  Instantly, murmurings took root within the crowd.

  “But I have another wife…” LaCroix jumped to his feet.

  Big Eagle shook his head. “It is over. I will not allow Scout LaCroix to gamble his other wife. Not tonight. Your luck has deserted you. You, Scout LaCroix, must take your loss like a man.”

  “But, with one more roll, I could—”

  “I have spoken,” said Big Eagle. Only the host had a right to interfere, and his declaration in his own home was law.

  “But, monsieur, I—”

  Big Eagle’s gaze at the man was severe. For whether LaCroix knew it or not, he had this moment insulted this very proud man. To the Indian way of thinking, a man need speak his request but once.

  However, it appeared Big Eagle was prepared to weather the abuse, and in a voice traced with sympathy, he said, “Take what little you have left. Take your last wife and be content that you still have her. Now, quickly, before the sun rises, you have much work to do. You must prepare your white wife for what is to come.”

  LaCroix hunched his shoulders, and with his gaze cast down over the bowl—which still held the last roll—he muttered, “I… I…” He seemed at a loss for words.

  At last Grey Coyote drew in a breath and stood to his feet, as well. “Hau, hau,” he said to the crowd, as he accepted their praise and their hands in congratulations.

  Outside of the expected polite murmurings, Grey Coyote found there was little happiness in him. In truth, it was on his mind to give the woman back to LaCroix.

  Not that he wasn’t tempted to keep her. But in his opinion, he was certain this woman would be pure distraction.

  However, if he let the woman go, by the precise rules of the game, he would have to hand back his other winnings to LaCroix. And this was a thing he was not at liberty to do.

  If LaCroix were the man from his vision—and Grey Coyote suspected he very well might be—then Grey Coyote had best tread carefully. To do otherwise would sabotage his vision.

  Stepping toward LaCroix, Grey Coyote said, “I will leave this village at first light. Therefore, you should awaken the white woman and prepare her for what is to come. You will also tie your horses next to mine. You may leave the other winnings here, next to the fire. I will see to them.”

  LaCroix nodded. “But, monsieur…”

  “Hau, hau?”

  “The woman… I should tell ye that…” LaCroix paused, and Grey Coyote waited. “I…I cannot…”

  Their host, Big Eagle, suddenly loomed before them and bestowed a wary look toward LaCroix. “Remember, Scout LaCroix, that you staked not only your possessions here tonight, but your honor, as well. Recollect also, my friend, that while the white man might cheat another and suffer no repercussion within the white man’s lodge, this is not so in Indian country. Here, a liar always comes to harm.”

  As the words were spoken, Grey Coyote stared hard at LaCroix. The man’s reaction was difficult to interpret. True, LaCroix had tensed his shoulders, was breathing heavily and his eyes were flung down toward the floor. But when LaCroix looked up, his features were set as he said, “I will prepare her for ye, monsieur, but she will not like it.”

  “Hiya,” responded Grey Coyote. “I do not suspect that the woman will like the turn of events at all.”

  For a moment, LaCroix stared at Grey Coyote, as though it were on his tongue to say more. But at last, Grey Coyote’s silence must have spoken for him, and without further incident LaCroix slouched forward, turned on his heel and stepped from the lodge.

  Frowning, Grey Coyote watched the man walk away.

  “Beware, my friend,” said Big Eagle, who still reposed next to Grey Coyote. “I do not trust this man.”

  “Hau. You speak with good reason,” Grey Coyote agreed. “In truth, I fear I might acquire a knife in the back this night, instead of horses and a wife.”

  Big Eagle nodded. “And yet, all here were witness. All here saw that it was not in your heart to gamble for the woman.”

  “Hau, hau, I regret this.”

  “But do not concern yourself,” continued Big Eagle. “While you sleep, we will watch this white man. We will ensure he will not do damage to you.”

  Grey Coyote gave a quick bob of his head, and holding up his right hand in a gesture of friendship, he murmured, “Hau, kola,” and turned away.

  However, Grey Coyote was not concerned about LaCroix or what he might do. Compared to the turbulence of his thoughts, Grey Coyote considered the threat of death a minor detail.

  No, what plagued Grey Coyote most was this: By the very edict of the riddle, once he had acquired the possessions of the man he sought, Grey Coyote was to communicate with the Creator by means of prayer, there to propose his speculations about the riddle. For if he guessed correctly, Grey Coyote had only to put this thought into action, and the curse would be lifted. But if he were wrong…

  Neither small nor large, nor wide, nor narrow, the white man possesses a thing that will propel you toward freedom. Though he will think it is possessed by him and though you must possess it, and it will possess you, only when you are free from it, yet act as it, will your people be released from the mist.

  Striding out of the hut, Grey Coyote stepped toward the river. There, at this hour, he was certain he could find a place where he might be alone with his Maker.

  The night was black. Storm clouds raced across the sky like dark omens. No light shone aloft, though a grumble of thunder and a slash of lightning lit up the sky briefly, as though the heavens mocked him.

  Always it was the same. Always the Thunderer followed him, taunted him. Indeed, so much was this so, Grey Coyote’s adopted people, the Assiniboine, had given Grey Coyote his name because of this—coyote, for his spirit protector; grey, for the turbulent clouds that stalked him.

  Lifting his face to the sky, he called out, “Mock me, if you will, Thunderer. But I have still several moons in which to unravel this riddle. And I will best you.” Then in a smaller voice, “I will best you.”

  The Thunderer chose not to answer, and Grey Coyote turned his attention to other, more important matters.

  Neither small nor large, nor wide, nor narrow, the white man possesses a thing that will propel you toward freedom. Though he will think it is possessed by him and though you must possess it, and it will possess you, only when you are free from it, yet act as it, will your people be released from the mist.

  What was it LaCroix thought he owned which was now in Grey Coyote’s possession? What was it that, though Grey Coyote might own it, was not his?

  Raising his arms to the midnight sky, Grey Coyote began his vigil by singing a song of thanks to the Creator. It was also a song to entreat the Creator to hear his voice:

  “Wakonda, have pity on me.

  Wakonda, I come to you to make my guess.

  Wakonda, have pity on me, for I do not fully understand this riddle.

  Wakonda, guide my thoughts.”

  Overhead, the clouds parted, and for a moment a star shown brightly. Ah, the Creator listened. Grey Coyote continued:

  “Wakonda, each time I obtain the possessions of the one I pursue, you have allowed me to guess at this riddle. I will do so now.

  Wakonda, I venture that the woman is the possession I seek for LaCroix once owned
her but now I have her yet I cannot own her since no man can really own a woman. Yes, Creator, I guess that the answer is the woman.”

  Grey Coyote waited. The star still shone brightly; no thunder pealed in the sky. Barely daring to breathe, Grey Coyote recognized these as good signs. Indeed, if he were not mistaken, this meant he had thus far guessed correctly.

  Now for the riddle’s final catalyst: If the woman were, indeed, the correct possession, what action was required of Grey Coyote that he might end the curse? Briefly, he recalled the words of the Lost Clan’s medicine man, White Claw:

  “Show kindness and mercy to an enemy. Help them. Remember had we done this to the thunder god’s children so long ago, our fate would never have included an eternal curse.”

  But who was the enemy? Surely it was not the white woman. How could a woman be his enemy?

  Was it LaCroix? Hau, hau. It had to be LaCroix. After all, LaCroix was white. Had not the white traders cheated the Indians in trade? Did they not make the red man crazy from the white man’s water? Was not LaCroix also a liar? And a liar, as all wise men know, is an enemy to all men.

  Surely, LaCroix was the enemy. But what action to take?

  “…only when you are free from it, yet act as it, will your people be released from the mist.”

  How could one be free from a possession if one were acting as it? Overhead, the clouds moved, signaling that Grey Coyote must make a guess. Taking a deep breath, he continued:

  “Wakonda, my final conjecture concerns the action I must take to end my people’s fate.

  Wakonda, guide my words, as well as my actions, for I am but a simple man.

  Wakonda, LaCroix is my enemy, to whom I must show kindness, to whom I must aid. Because the possession that concerns us is the woman, I conclude that I must return the white woman to LaCroix. For as any man knows, to take away one’s wife is to steal a man’s heart. Further, if I am to act as ‘it’, or to act as the possession would act, would not the woman desire to stay with her husband?