Page 45 of The Spirit of the Wolf

A gnarly hand jerked up a knife, then down it plunged, into the hunter’s heart, stabbing the man once, then again and again.

It was over in a matter of minutes.

Letting go of the body, the creature kicked the hunter aside and grabbed up the hunter’s wolf pelts. The beast then slung the furs—which were tied onto a ropelike string—over its shoulder.

“Blazing wolfer,” the creature muttered, its speech more growl than human. “Deserved what’cha got. This’n here’s my woods, wolfer. No one hunts here but me. Reckon these is mine. A fine penny they’ll fetch fer me too.”

The beast spit, first on the hunter, then on the ground. The brute snarled as well, and with no concern given to the hunter’s body, to the spirit of the man or to a decent burial, the beast crashed away through the undergrowth, heading toward the closest known trading post.

Chapter

Ten

It was early evening, the time of day when the sun has set yet the west is still awash in the shimmering golds and pinks of dusk. Straight overhead, however, the sky was the deepest blue. In the east a lone star rose over the horizon, while the high-pitched singsong of the crickets and locusts grew loud, replacing the more melodious chirping of the lark sparrow, the longspur and robin. A lone dove cooed in the distance.

Grey Coyote was en route to the coulee where he had hobbled the ponies. Moisture hung heavily in the air as he trod over known ground. The fragrant scents of dry grass and wildflowers had settled densely over the land, perfuming the landscape with an aroma which was sweet but weighty.

It happened suddenly. One moment the western sky was alight with end-of-the-day images, the next it was pitch-black, thick with moisture-laden storm clouds dominating the landscape. Overhead, the thunder roared.

Though it was not uncommon for bad weather to suddenly come upon the unwary prairie traveler, Grey Coyote knew this was no ordinary storm. For five days Grey Coyote had experienced a reprieve of sorts from the duty that haunted him; for five days he had heard nothing from the Thunderer.

It appeared his breathing space was fleeting. Indeed, his archenemy was back.

All at once, a windstorm kicked up around him, and like a blast from a white man’s gun, a fast-whirling prairie wind knocked Grey Coyote off his feet. No rifle was fired, yet Grey Coyote ached as though he had been shot, and many times.

Flat on his back, unable for the moment to rise, Grey Coyote had no option but to look up into the sky.

There, images had formed above him…two images. One was familiar—the man from his vision, the man with unkempt, unclean and straggly hair. The other likeness was of a white trapper.

The trapper lay dead. But the beast—his appearance ugly and more bearlike than human—hovered over his victim like some wild monster, glad of its conquest.

And then came the familiar refrain:

“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.”

What did this mean? Why was he, Grey Coyote, being given a vision now, when he had not sought one?

And then the answer came to him: The white man was near. Grey Coyote’s moment, his chance to end the curse, was close at hand.

But was this all? Was it not also a warning from the Creator? An alarm raised to show Grey Coyote that he must be prepared? That the one he sought was capable of inhuman acts?

Hau. Grey Coyote feared it was so.

The images faded, allowing Grey Coyote to rise onto his feet. For an instant, he stood stock-still, his face upturned to the heavens. Lifting his arms, he began to sing.

“Haiye, haiye, hai-ha.

Haiye, haiye, hai-ha.”

It was a song of thanksgiving, a song sent to the Creator in acknowledgment. It was also a promise to the Creator—and to himself.

He would be prepared.

Grey Coyote had done what he must. Nevertheless, his heart was heavy as he dragged his feet all the way back to camp, his spirits burdened beyond comfort, for he dreaded the confrontation with his wife, an argument which would be forthcoming, no doubt. But there was nothing for it. He’d had to do it.

He had let the ponies go. He’d had no choice.