Page 6 of The Spirit of the Wolf

“Hiya, mistress…safe. No rain…here.”

“Good. I am glad.” With a sigh, Marietta set her attention to other matters, to the interior of the lodge. The Minnetaree dwelling looked to be no more than a mud or clay hut. Nevertheless, it was really quite spacious, probably being about two hundred paces in diameter. It was also very clean. The floor, which was made of mud, was packed down so well, she was certain that if a white dress were to be trailed over it, there would be no dirt or mud to be seen upon the dress.

All the Indians’ things, their furniture and bags, were also put away neatly. In the center of the hut was a hearth in the form of a circle, sunk into the ground. It was here that a small fire had been built, and it appeared to Marietta as though the blaze were always lit. What was more, an earthen pot, containing some sort of soup, was suspended over the fire, the pot seeming to be always full, as well.

Next to the hearth sat her hired guide, Jacques LaCroix. After a week of rough travel and open-air sleeping—they had started at the American Fur Company and had followed the river south—this hut was like a godsend.

Not that she trusted LaCroix overly much. He had come to her recommended by the gentleman who headed the American Fur Company. However, when neither Princess Sierra nor her husband, High Wolf, trusted the man, then Marietta didn’t either. But there had been no one else.

She sighed. Currently LaCroix was lounging on the ground while he shook some sort of wooden bowl. Across from him sat a handsome young Indian man. His hair, black as midnight, was quite long for a man, reaching straight to his waist. His cheeks, forehead and the center of his chin were painted red, while a lock of his hair had been pulled forward, cut about nose-length and hung straight down to his nose. Two white beads draped over his eyes, attached there by a hair string.

He wore leggings of what looked to be deer hide, and a shirt of the same material that fell down almost to his knees. The shirt, which was tied in the center, emphasized a slim waistline. Over his shoulders was thrown a buffalo hide, devoid of hair and tanned in such a way it looked to Marietta as though he wore a cape, much as a civilized man might don a redingote.

His fingers were long, giving the appearance of strength, and his gaze, as he stared at Mr. LaCroix, was pure intention. This Indian was highly intelligent. Was it intelligence, then, that kept drawing her glance to him? Or was it perhaps his aura of manliness? Whatever it was, there was an indefinable something about the man that made her stare at him long after what she knew was right and proper.

If he noticed her regard, he gave no indication of it. From her perspective, he didn’t spare her so much as a glance.

Marietta inhaled a deep breath, and bending toward Yellow Swan, who sat next to her on the floor, Marietta said, “Do you know what Jacques and that other man are doing? And how much longer they will be at it? I thought we would only be in this village a short while, but those two have been engaged at whatever it is they are doing for well over a day. And this at a time when I must hurry…”

“Han,” replied Yellow Swan. “They…gamble. Sometimes…takes long.”

“Gamble?” Marietta sat up a little straighter and gave the two men a bit more of her attention. “I wonder what Jacques has to gamble with?” She said it almost to herself. “I haven’t yet paid him the full amount he is demanding to take us back to the village of St. Louis.”

Yellow Swan smiled. “Him have…knife. Him have…horses. Him have…gun.”

Marietta shot her maid a quick glance. “But he will need all those items if he is to protect us on our journey back to St. Louis.”

“Him also…have…umm…wife.”

“A wife? Jacques has a wife?”

“Han.” Yellow Swan pointed toward Marietta. “White woman.”

“He’s married to a white woman? This must, indeed, be an unusual circumstance in this part of the country.”

Yellow Swan giggled, but Marietta frowned. Again, using her thumb, Yellow Swan indicated her.

“You,” she repeated. “You…wife.”

“I am not his wife. He is not my husband.”

“Hiya? No? Then…why he…with you?”

“Because I have hired him to lead me…us…to St. Louis,” said Marietta with a bit of exasperation in her voice. “That’s all. There is nothing between Jacques and myself except gold and a desire on my part to return to St. Louis.”

“Humph. Yet…white woman…alone with…man not…husband? I thought he…you… I thought…”

“No.” Marietta paused. “He is not my husband.”

“This...strange. Woman travel…with man…not husband. In this…country…when woman travel…with man…he is husband.”

“Do you mean to tell me that in this country, just by the act of going from one place to another with someone, the very person who is leading their party, if he be male, becomes a woman’s husband?”

“Han.” She nodded. “Or woman…have bad…hmmm…name.”

Marietta shook her head. “Our societies are very much different, Yellow Swan. In my world, a woman may hire a man to guide her somewhere, and, as long as she has a chaperone—you are my chaperone—no one thinks the less of her.”

“Chaperone?”