Page 40 of The Spirit of the Wolf

He shrugged. “Perhaps it is because I have done so all the days of my life. I know of no Indian man who cannot do it.”

She merely shook her head. “And still, for me, you are the only one I know who can.”

“Perhaps the white man has a more leisurely life.”

“Maybe. Well, come. Before we start skinning the deer, you should take yourself down to the stream and bathe, for you smell of deer and blood.”

He sniffed at himself, pulling at his shirt. “You do not like it?”

“There are other scents I prefer.”

He grinned, but nonetheless, turning, he headed toward their little stream. She watched him with a greatly adoring gaze. Then, sighing, she returned to her chores.

Soon both she and Grey Coyote were hard at work.

It would be Grey Coyote’s duty to clean and gut the animal, while Marietta set to striking up the fire and fixing the tripod which would hold the meat for smoking. It would also be her task to dig out the marrow from the various bones of the deer, for this yellowish fat looked and tasted much like butter, and when it was pounded, along with berries and dried meat, it made a fine pemmican.

At the moment, however, she had ceased her work, for Grey Coyote had come to her and was bent over her, painting her face.

To herself, she grinned, for it seemed Grey Coyote regarded her with a bit of awe. His hands shook at his task, and his fingers were unsteady. Though she dared not smile openly, Marietta was thoroughly charmed.

“Tell me again,” she said, barely moving her lips, “why is it that you are painting me?”

He paused, his midnight eyes looking deeply into her own. For a moment, they shared an affectionate glance. “Because your skin is fair and will burn under the sun. Therefore, you need protection. Also because it is my duty as your husband to do this for you.”

“Ahhh. An Assiniboine husband performs this custom for his wife as a matter of course?”

Grey Coyote nodded. “Every day. Unless there is no sun.”

“I see. And what does an Assiniboine wife do for her husband in return? Does she paint his face as well?”

Grey Coyote drew himself up as straight as he could, given his position. “No man requires a woman to paint his face.” He frowned at her, his countenance mock-serious. Though he smiled, he asked, “Do you mean to insult me?”

“No,” she said, not wishing to offend. “I was just curious.”

This seemed to placate him easily enough, and despite the fact his hands still trembled at his task—reminding her again that he treated her like she might be a fine jewel—he at last completed the chore.

Sitting back, Grey Coyote surveyed his handiwork. “Since you have asked about painting my face, perhaps I should tell you how an Indian woman takes care of her man: an Indian woman takes care of her man by cleaning the meat, sewing him good, sturdy clothes, putting together their lodge, and many other chores concerning the lodge. An Assiniboine wife is very tireless in her work, and when a man returns from the hunt with game, she will settle her man into their lodge and bring him pipe and food. She will even remove his moccasins and rub his feet.”

“Really?”

He bobbed his head. “She will also wash down his pony and take the game he procured; she will dress it and cook it. It is a good time for a man. An Assiniboine husband anticipates these leisure activities with his wife with much joy.”

“Does he now?”

“Hau.”

“It’s really a lot of work for a woman,” Marietta said with a smirk. “You should know this.”

“It is true. And a good woman is the object of much affection, as you are with me.”

She grinned.

“But tell me,” he continued, “does a white woman do no work?”

Marietta shrugged. “She does much work, as does her husband.”

He nodded. “It is the same for the Indian. There are women’s chores and men’s chores. And when in camp with others, the two never cross. Now here, I help you with many of the chores that are traditionally considered the tasks of the woman. I do this because there is no one else here, and because you do not know our ways. But were I in an encampment of my people, if I were to be caught doing these same chores for you, I would be laughed at, even called a woman, perhaps rejected from the society to which I belong.”