Page 8 of The Spirit of the Wolf

After a moment, Grey Coyote said, “From where I sit, unless you have something else you would like to offer, the game is over.”

LaCroix’s lip turned up, and he snarled. “The game is not yet over, so do not rush me, monsieur. Ye do not see before ye a beaten man. I have other riches I have not yet tapped.”

Grey Coyote nodded. “My mistake. Proceed.”

LaCroix placed two sticks forward. “These represent my two horses. Good horseflesh.”

Again Grey Coyote nodded.

This was it. LaCroix inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and slammed the bowl on the ground several times, spinning it carefully.

A hushed quiet fell over the crowd. Bending, both men stared into the bowl.

“Hau, hau,” said Grey Coyote. “I see five burnt sides. That is four each, or twenty. Five eye sides up at two each, or ten; four concaves up, at one each, or four. You must give me thirty-four sticks for your roll, and I will place them beside your others. But I see nothing else in this roll. Do you agree?”

“Ye speak truth,” said LaCroix. “Is a good roll, what say ye?”

Counting out the number of sticks that LaCroix handed him, Grey Coyote set them next to the others that were accumulating in LaCroix’s court, a total of only forty sticks. “It is, indeed, a good roll.”

“It is yer turn, monsieur.” Anxiety colored LaCroix’s voice.

Slowly, pretending he was unaware of his opponent’s tension, Grey Coyote took possession of the Cos-soo bowl. More speedily than before, he banged the dish on the floor several times, he, too, turning the Cos-soo bowl round and round. There. It was done.

Both men bent over and peeped into the bowl.

Grey Coyote sat back, reading off the amount of his roll to the crowd at large. “The big claw on end, or thirty; two red claws at five each, or ten. Three blue sides up, at three each, or nine. Four concaves up at one each, or four. It is a total of fifty-three sticks.”

LaCroix’s face fell. The crowd murmured in the background, and Grey Coyote carefully counted the sticks to give to LaCroix, watching to ensure that LaCroix set them all in Grey Coyote’s court.

“Monsieur wins again.”

Grey Coyote barely acknowledged the man. Instead, he paused, then in a low voice said, “I think we are finished. You have nothing else of value to offer.”

“That is not true, monsieur. I have yet a most prized possession.”

Grey Coyote raised a single eyebrow. “And this is?”

“My wife.”

Grey Coyote didn’t pretend to misunderstand the man, and though his heart skipped a beat at the very thought of the white woman, all he uttered was, “I do not wish to have your wife. Nor any woman.”

“Not even the golden-haired wench?”

Thin-lipped, Grey Coyote hesitated.

LaCroix, perhaps sensing the mood change, pressed his advantage. “What have ye to lose? Is she not worth the last gamble?”

“She very well might be,” agreed Grey Coyote. “But the manner of my life does not allow for a woman in it—not even one as fine as she is. Let us call an end to this game. Keep your woman.”

LaCroix leaned forward. “What is this? Do ye try to make me think ye do not like white women?”

Grey Coyote shrugged, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Yet I seen ye lookin’ at the wench.”

“And who would not?” countered Grey Coyote, a little too quickly. “It is a rare sight to behold a white woman on the plains.”

“Is it? I wonder… Ye speak English very well, monsieur. This means ye have some acquaintance with the white people. Are ye afraid of them?”