Page 81 of The Spirit of the Wolf

“Humph!” said Grey Coyote. “This is familiar.”

“Familiar? About the beast?”

“Hau, hau. Please read it again.”

“‘Long, dark straggly hair. Black beard…’”

Grey Coyote heard no more. It was he, the man Grey Coyote sought. And he was only three days away. At last, Grey Coyote was on the right path.

Glancing up, Grey Coyote observed that, in the west, storm clouds were accumulating fast. It was hardly surprising. Nor did it astonish him that above him came a rumble of thunder. Indeed, such phenomena were a part of his namesake. These were signs, mere signs.

The chance to end this curse was near.

Fort Pierre was designed in a square, with a garden at its southwest section. Much more fortified than the Acme Trading Post, Fort Pierre’s main building was surrounded by pickets of large logs which were taller than the fort itself. Bastions jutted out from the fort’s northeast and southwest corners, causing Marietta to wonder if there were a reason for such defense.

Was this western land really so dangerous?

Regardless, in her view of it, the fort represented civilization. But instead of the enthusiasm this thought should have brought, a sense of loss swept over her. Strange.

She, Yellow Swan and Grey Coyote were at present lying on a cliff, overlooking a scene that stretched out over a level expanse of dry, brown prairie. They had traveled here through the night, having burned the Acme/LaPrenier trading post to the ground as a burial ceremony.

They had then set their trail to intersect with the beast, following his tracks…to this place.

Interestingly, Fort Pierre sat amongst a great deal of beauty. Perhaps two hundred or more graceful Indian lodges were pitched in the fort’s vicinity, their aesthetic, conical shapes adorning the landscape. Close to the fort flowed the Missouri River, its muddy currents rushing by at a fast pace, like whirling drifts of coffee-colored water. Hills rose on the western side of the fort, and in the far distance were the hazy, dark shapes of even taller mountains.

Marietta frowned. This, of course, was her chance. There swirled the Missouri River, so near she could almost reach out and touch it. There lay her ticket to St. Louis. Indeed, at this place she could hire a guide, then follow the river all the way back to St. Louis.

But she was not the same person she had been only a week ago. There were other people, other duties to consider now.

Could she leave Grey Coyote? Could she do it when his destiny seemed so close at hand? Moreover, hadn’t his vision, and hers, expressed that she should follow him?

But what about England? What about Rosemead, the family estate? Didn’t she have her own dream to follow?

After all, if she did not appear in the solicitor’s office in a timely manner…

Before her adventures with Grey Coyote, Marietta had been fairly certain of what her future might hold were she to survive the journey. And it had been a happy prospect. Could she really disregard it so easily?

However, all was not as it was, even two weeks ago. What if she did leave and Grey Coyote didn’t end the spell that haunted him? What if it were to be all because of her? What then? Would her decision to go be a source of distress to her for the rest of her life? For the rest of his life?

Most likely it would be. Yet her hopes, her dreams, her duty to her family could not be easily disregarded… Truly, Marietta stood divided.

Grey Coyote, who reposed on his stomach between Marietta and Yellow Swan, was happily unaware of Marietta’s thoughts and had begun to speak. “The Indian camps here—those that are raised around this fort—are of the Teton and Yankton Lakota. And though these tribes are cousins of the Assiniboine, we are at war with them.”

Marietta tossed him a quick glance. “Does this mean it will be difficult to approach the fort?”

“Difficult, it will be,” he acknowledged. “But not impossible.” Carefully, he turned over and stared up into the sky. “I may find myself dressing in the fashion of the Lakota.”

“Dressing like the Lakota?”

“A scout,” Grey Coyote said, seeming amused, “must affect many different disguises.”

“Ahhh.” Marietta beamed at him. “This is a very good idea.” Glancing down at herself, she frowned. “But we have a problem, Mr. Coyote. Beneath the mud and grass that I have been forced to wear, I am practically naked.”

“I know.” A half smile pulled at his lips. “Your lack of dress has been of much inspiration to me.”

She shook her head at him. “No, you don’t understand. I can’t approach the fort or the Indian encampment like this.”

“Hau, this I understand, and it is too bad that your manner of dress—or rather undress—will have to change. But, alas, it has to be. Therefore, I think we will pause here while we bathe and change clothing.”