Page 2 of The Spirit of the Wolf

Rather, he reached out farther, so he might grasp hold of his protector. Perhaps he might touch something tangible, something which would show him that this time he was walking the good path, the right path. But he felt nothing.

Disappointed, Grey Coyote fell to his knees.

And then it happened, taking place so slowly at first Grey Coyote did not recognize the spirit for what it was. The little wolf’s howl had transformed from an eerie series of wails to words. They were yipping, guttural words, it was true. But to Grey Coyote, never had a sound been sweeter.

He looked up, and there on a ledge before him was his vision, his protector. There, too, was a faceless, dark-haired, white man.

“Seek out this man,” barked the little wolf. “You will know him by his long, dark and stringy hair; you will recognize him also by his greasy, ugly appearance. Many are the habits that this white man will do; they will repulse you. But you must persevere, for when you have found him, you need only solve this riddle:

“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.

“You alone must solve this, you alone must act on it, and if you do, your people go free. Fail to settle the riddle satisfactorily, fail to act, and your people remain enslaved. Further, if you err and do not solve this, you will live the rest of your life forever knowing you did not prove yourself worthy.

“I have spoken.”

The voice faded away, repeating these words over and over, Solve this, act on it, and your people go free, until at last the spirit itself began to evaporate.

“Ogluksa, wait!” cried out Grey Coyote. “Spirit Protector, have pity on me. I am but a simple man. And I do not understand this riddle.”

But the music had stopped. The ancient voices had stilled. Even the wolves in the distance no longer howled.

And though Grey Coyote cried out again, the spirit of the little wolf was gone. Grey Coyote was alone.

Chapter

Two

Five Years Later

The Minnetaree Village

A Permanent Indian Village of mud huts on the Knife River

Upper Missouri Territory—in what is today the State of North Dakota

Summer 1835

From the corner of his eye Grey Coyote watched the white man sneakily take a stick out of the line up of the sticks he was keeping for Grey Coyote. It gave Grey Coyote ten sticks instead of the eleven he had won fairly.

So, the white man has no honor.

Grey Coyote raised a single eyebrow and cast a glance across the few feet that separated him from the white man, the man the Minnetaree Indians called the scout, LaCroix. LaCroix was French, as were many of the white men in this country. His face was pale and bearded, his hair long, dark and scraggly. His breath stank of the white man’s whiskey, and his body smelled of dirt and grime.

None of this bothered Grey Coyote. In truth, he was smiling at the man, although the expression could hardly be called one of good humor. After a moment, Grey Coyote said, “Darkness has fallen again. We have been playing for longer than a full day now.”

LaCroix grunted.

“As you know, we are both guests here, in my friend’s lodge, in the Minnetaree village,” continued Grey Coyote. “And I would hardly be the cause of a fight if I could avoid it, for it would bring shame to our host, Big Eagle.”

Grunting again, LaCroix looked away. His gaze shifted from one object in the room to another, not centering on anything in particular, not even on the lovely white woman who reposed on one of their host’s beds in a corner of the hut.

As discreetly as possible, Grey Coyote let his gaze rest on the golden-haired beauty. He had never before seen a white woman, and to say that Grey Coyote was surprised at her appearance would have been an understatement.

He would have assumed the white man’s woman would be as unkempt and perhaps as hairy as her male counterpart. But this simply was not so. The woman was uncommonly pretty. Slim, small and curvy, with tawny hair that reached well to her waist, the woman’s coloring reminded him of a pale sunset—luminous, translucent, mysterious.

Her eyes were as tawny as her hair, like those of a mountain lion’s. Even at this distance, and despite the ever-growing darkness in the one-room hut, Grey Coyote could discern their color. It was a rare shade to be found here on the plains, where the eye colors of dark brown and black dominated.

Warming to his subject, he noted thoughtfully that the white woman’s skin was also quite fair, unblemished. Her cheeks were glowing, as pale and pink as the prairie rose. To his eye, she was a beautiful sight.