Page 80 of The Spirit of the Wolf

Once again, Grey Coyote extended his perceptions into every corner of the post. Slinking forward, Grey Coyote stole into an inner sanctum. There was a door, and he guessed this would be where LaPrenier would be found.

Though he still didn’t sense any signs of life, he opened the door carefully. As the entryway flung wide, he at once saw LaPrenier.

The man had been stabbed twice, maybe three times. He lay slumped over a table, and clutched in one hand was a quill.

Had LaPrenier been trying to write something?

Though Grey Coyote was not acquainted with writing, many times he had witnessed his brother-in-law working over papers and books very similar to these.

Taking a few steps forward, Grey Coyote moved LaPrenier’s body. Sure enough, the man had written something before his death. But what?

Though he could make no sense of what the marks meant, sitting behind some bushes, out there on the hill, was someone who very likely could.

Moving LaPrenier’s corpse farther to the side, Grey Coyote grabbed hold of the book that contained the writing, and placing it under his arm, carefully slipped away from this place.

“Ito, come,” Grey Coyote said to the two women as soon as he was within speaking distance. “Let us go back to the far side of the hill, where I originally told you to wait. It is a better location for hiding than this one is. We must talk.”

Yellow Swan scooted in the direction he pointed. Marietta made a move to follow her, but Grey Coyote caught her by the arm.

“My wife,” he said, “I have need of your talent.”

“Me?” She turned back to him, her look slightly puzzled. “What do you mean? What talent?”

Grey Coyote held out the book to her. “Can you tell me what the white man’s scratches mean?”

Mystified at first, Marietta stared at the book, then accepted and opened it. “Yes, I can read this writing. Where did you get this?”

“From the spirit of the men who traded at this place.”

“Spirit of the men?”

“They are dead. But there is something in this book that drew me to it.”

“Oh no. The men are dead?”

Grey Coyote nodded. “Three days. One man was stabbed many times in the back. One man was stabbed three times. But this man held a quill clutched in his hand, and he had been making white man’s writing. Some of the scratches I see are different from the others. I do not know what these mean, but I wonder, did he leave a message?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go back to our hiding place, and I’ll have a look.”

Grey Coyote inclined his head and led her there.

Chapter

Sixteen

“This is a book of record,” said Marietta. “One hundred pounds of beaver pelts at three dollars a pound, two hundred pounds of buffalo robes. It’s a journal of their day-to-day business.”

Grey Coyote nodded. “But is there anything special about what was written three days ago?”

“I don’t know. Here, let me flip to the right page.” She turned to the last entry—not a pretty sight. There was dried blood on the paper, and Marietta made a slight face. “Do you know why these men were killed?”

“I do not,” said Grey Coyote. “I am trying to determine the reason.”

Marietta swallowed hard. “It’s not the last entry that is important, but what is written on its adjoining page—here.” She pointed. “The man was dying as he wrote this. You can see it from the style of his penmanship.”

“Hau, yes, this I know. But what does it say?”

“‘The beast,’” he writes, “‘brought in wolf pelts to trade, got drunk.’” Marietta stared up at Grey Coyote. “He then writes that he and his partner drugged the man because they were afraid of him. The beast awoke; he was insane.” She pointed to the writing. “They shot at him, but like a bear, the beast could not be killed. The two partners holed up in the back of their house, hoping the beast would go away, but he didn’t. These words are what he wrote before the beast burst in on him. But look, his last entry is a description of this thing he calls the beast: ‘Half man, half animal. Long, dark straggly hair. Black beard, mustache. A big man, more bear than human.’”