Chapter Six

They traveled south and west, riding through the soft, balmy night. Grey Coyote appeared to take his direction from the North Star, since she observed his examination of it several times. So that was how Indians found their way.

As if by mutual consent, Marietta rode her own mount now, noting with some surprise that the animal had already been primed for this purpose. Her pony was equipped with buckskin reins and a blanket for a saddle.

Strange how the thought of escaping from this man now had the appearance of being ridiculous. Was it only this morning she had accused him of stealing her?

Perhaps he had done so, but she didn’t really care anymore. Though she had been in his presence for only a few hours, she felt as though she could trust him.

Would he take her to St. Louis? Could she use feminine wiles to her advantage? He had said maybe—if she performed well on their travels. But would she perform well? After all, what did she know about camp life?

Glancing ahead toward Grey Coyote, she saw with some astonishment that he must have increased his pace, for he was leaving her behind.

“C’mon, pony,” she whispered to the mustang. “Let’s not let him get too far ahead.”

Soon, with very little effort, both were racing their mounts over the land. On the one hand, it was frightening. Dusky shadows darkened the earth, she couldn’t see where she was going, and images of prairie dog holes danced in her imagination.

On the other hand, the open spaces of the prairie seemed to urge a person to let go. Not of anything in particular, but to simply give up her cares. The peacefulness of the prairie, the expanses of the space, as though it were urging one to be free, pressed in on her. Despite herself, she felt unfettered.

The stars above her littered the sky from horizon to horizon. Indeed, from her position, their numbers looked to be so great she thought if she were to account for their total with a slash on a blackboard for each star, those slashes might well fill an entire room.

Marietta’s pony jostled beneath her, and she petted its neck and bent down. “What a good pony you are. You run like the wind.” At her words the animal snorted, creating the impression that it glowed with pride, appearing to step even more sure-footedly over uneven ground.

There was a constant wind in this place, Marietta noted. But this was summer, and it was not a cold wind that blew at her, though at this late hour of the night, the breeze did tend to chill. However, she had her dress, Grey Coyote’s shirt and his cloak to warm her, so it was not as if this were a hardship.

Glancing upward, she decided it was probably around midnight or perhaps later. And if that were the case, then they had been riding hard for well over five hours. Yet she was not very tired. Indeed, glancing off toward the north, Marietta spied a series of lights, columns of dancing brilliance. Now green, now blue, now yellow.

Had this just started? She didn’t recall seeing this earlier. Why, the whole northern sky was alight with streams of incandescence—a luster that looked as though it played in the heavens.

Were these the northern lights? They seemed unreal but fantastic. As she watched them, she felt childlike and just like she were privy to a treat.

Grey Coyote slowed to let her pony come up alongside his own, and he caught hold of its reins, unnecessarily pointing out the flares to her. She nodded, smiling at him, then gazed at the splendor again.

Some sixth sense had her looking back at him, and she was startled to realize he hadn’t taken his eyes from her.

“Is something amiss?” she whispered.

Grey Coyote didn’t respond to the question, and after a while, he simply turned away, setting his pony once more into dashing across the moonlit fields. Marietta followed, but at a more leisurely, thoughtful pace.

A wind rushed in her face, just as if it tried to speak to her. But what it said was beyond her. Hours passed, and still Grey Coyote hurried onward, just as if he had wagered himself against the coming sunrise. It was only in the extreme darkness before dawn that Grey Coyote at last called a halt to their march. Sighing deeply, still atop her mount, Marietta began to relax, looking forward to a restful sleep.

 

 

There had been no sleep, however. None for her, for Grey Coyote or for their horses, either—not even a few hours. After a too-brief meal of pounded, dried meat with fat and berries added—a meal she had once heard called pemmican—she and Grey Coyote shifted mounts, so as not to overly tire any one pony, and had once again set out across the prairie.

They had traveled all morning, not taking the slightest rest. Many times it had been in Marietta’s mind to ask for respite, but each moment when she had formed the question on her lips, she had thought better of it. After all, if her goal was St. Louis—and it was—the faster they traveled, the better.

But finally—and it must have been close to noon, for the sun had been straight overhead—they had stopped. But that had been several hours ago. Her task now was to light a fire.

Clink, clink, clink.

The sound of the flintstone and the iron pyrite, as she beat them against each other, was beginning to grate on her nerves. After these last few hours’ work—and doing nothing but this same thing over and over—it seemed to her as if the entire process was impossible. She had never made a fire this way, and it didn’t look as though she would be lighting one now, either.

Straightening up, she raised the flap of their shelter’s entrance and glanced around the little gulch where they had settled, looking for any sign to indicate that Grey Coyote had returned. But nothing met her gaze except the now-familiar landscape of their gully.

It was a pretty place. On one side of the ravine ran a gurgling stream, and next to the stream grew a few short scrub trees, which clung to the shoreline. Each bush threw out delicate patches of shade, though so flimsy was that shade, it did nothing to give human comfort.

Their meager abode was interesting, since Grey Coyote had fashioned the structure so it blended into the environment. Indeed, he had done this so well, their little lodge “disappeared” to the eye.

Marietta wasn’t certain how he had accomplished this, either. She remembered earlier watching him position two boulders close together and had seen him throw his robe between and over those two stones. The action had created their ceiling, of sorts. He had then made a smoke hole at one end of the shelter, and over the entire thing he had laid grasses and plants and bushes, placing them around their dwelling, as though landscaping the entire thing.

Then she had lost interest in the activity, had glanced away, and the next thing she knew, she could barely detect that a shelter was even there.

However, for all that the dwelling was temporary, it was really quite comfortable. Over the ground Grey Coyote had placed a buffalo robe—their “rug” or “floor”—and beside her were bags full of berries and fruit, as well as some roots, pemmican and water.

These, too, had been left by Grey Coyote, who had then informed her that she was to stay within the protection of their hideaway during his absence. So saying, Grey Coyote had gathered the horses together and trudged off. He had mentioned he would be looking for a place to keep the horses, some location distant from where they were camped, for if set to grazing next to their little niche, the animals would announce their presence.

Marietta had questioned Grey Coyote about the wisdom of doing this, certain that if put out on their own, the animals would either return to the wild or be stolen. But Grey Coyote had shrugged, saying he would hobble them, but if they were stolen, it was no loss. Ponies abounded on the plains, he said; he could always get more.

She did not quite understand his attitude. Did the man care nothing for his possessions?

But no amount of arguing could persuade Grey Coyote to do otherwise than what he thought best.

Clink, clink, clink. The sound of her efforts filled the small space.

“You will never light the fire that way.”

Marietta jumped. The low voice came from behind her, within the shelter itself. Where had the man come from?

Pressing her hand to her chest, she let out a breath. “Mr. Coyote, you frightened me. Not only did I not hear your approach…” she glanced around the interior, “…but how did you come to be here?”

“I did not intend that you would hear me, and there are ways.” He stared down at the array of small sticks she had gathered together. He crouched beside her. “Where did you find this tinder?”

“I took it from the ground.”

Grey Coyote picked up one of the sticks and examined it. “The storm must have blown these off the tree last night.” He bent the stick. “Do you see that it is still green?”

“Yes, well, green wood will burn.”

“With difficulty, and with much smoke,” he countered. “Besides, even with dry twigs, one would never start a fire this way.”

Marietta, who had been sitting forward on her knees, flopped down, sitting back on her rump. She brought her knees to her chest, placing her arms around them. “Very well. Then tell me how it is done.”

“Surely you have lit a fire before this.”

“No, not in this manner, I have not. Where I come from we have matches.”

Grey Coyote nodded. “I have seen these, for my sister’s husband keeps them. They are a source of great mystery to the red man. But here on the plains, a man must learn to light a fire another way. One does not often find matches in nature.”

“No, I don’t suppose one would.” She gave him a shy glance. “Are you going to show me how it is done?”

“Hau, hau. I could do this.” Looking askance at her, he gave her a wink.

Marietta stared at him. Had he meant to wink at her? Was he flirting with her?

“What we will need,” he began, “is something dry and small—”

“But these branches I gathered are small.”

“Scrawnier yet,” he said. “What is required is something like dried grass or moss, which we have here in plenty. Watch.” Pushing aside the buffalo robe, he pulled up some brown grass, taking it in his hand and pinching it until it resembled dried flakes. These he placed on top of a small, flat stone.

She watched his hands yet again at work, and swallowing hard, she recalled their feel on her skin when he had helped to button her dress.

But he was continuing to speak, and she gave him her attention easily enough. “Now rub the stones together, over this grass.”

She took up the flintstone and pyrite to do as he said, rubbing the two together.

Several tiny sparks fell down to the flakes. At the same time, Grey Coyote bent low and blew on those hot specks, adding more grass, until the whole thing began to flame. To this he assembled tiny bits of dry wood.

“Do you see how it is done?” He gestured toward the fire and looked up at Marietta. “First one must feed the fire with dry grass, then blow on the sparks until they ignite, then add chips of wood. It does require some patience, but not much.”

A tiny flare shot up from the mixture.

“Now we need a place for our fire, for we will require it to be somewhat bigger than this small stone. Perhaps we can pull back the buffalo robe and make a bigger fire here at the entrance, since there is a smoke hole here.”

She nodded.

“Watch.” He sat up, pushed away the buffalo robe and set the stone and the gentle blaze on the ground. “Now we gradually add more wood. It must be dry wood, for if it is green, it will send up smoke and alert our enemies that we are here.”

Again, she nodded.

He glanced up at her, his gaze soft. “Do you think you could keep the fire alive while I find more wood that is dry?”

“I think so.”

“Hau, hau.” After crawling out of their refuge, he was gone but a few moments. When he returned, he carried boughs and offshoots, and only two or three larger pieces of wood.

“But the wood you’ve brought will burn through quickly.”

“Then we will keep feeding it. What we need is a small fire, nothing large. A fire can be seen at great distances on the prairie. The trick is to make the blaze small, and one that is smokeless, almost impossible to detect.”

“I see,” she said, and they both fell silent, watching the fire. Occasionally one or the other of them would feed pieces of wood to burn.

After a short time he asked, “Are you hungry?”

“I am.”

“Then come, the fire is good. It will keep. I have brought us fresh meat.”

“Fresh meat?”

“Two rabbits. Follow me, for I left their carcasses outside our shelter. You can help me skin and clean them, and we will have a good meal.”

Marietta noisily sucked in her breath, causing Grey Coyote to arch a brow. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s only that I have never skinned and cleaned a rabbit before.”

He nodded. “Do not worry. They are gutted much like anything else.”

“No, you do not understand. I have never skinned or gutted anything in my life. I was a lady’s maid, and something like this was never required of me.”

This seemed to surprise him, and he frowned at her. But he said not a word of censure. Instead, he crawled out of their sanctum, and without standing up, held out a hand to her and motioned her to come after.

Leaving their tiny lodge, she came down on her hands and knees beside him, where he knelt next to the rabbits.

Grey Coyote didn’t immediately set to skinning the game. Rather, he placed his hand on the still bodies of the rabbits. Then with head bent, he said, “Thank you for giving your life to us, my brothers. Your sacrifice will mean our survival. Thank you, Creator, for this food.”

It was a simple prayer, but only when it was uttered did Grey Coyote pick up the game, and coming up onto his feet, he set off toward the stream.

Marietta followed, uncertain she was ready for this. It was one thing to eat meat; it was another to behold the animal from which that meat came.

Once at the rivulet, Grey Coyote squatted beside the flowing water, and gesturing toward her, urged her to come closer. Again, she did as asked.

“I did not realize how new this is for you.” He unsheathed his knife. Marietta drew back from the weapon, but all he said was, “A good tool is necessary if one is to skin the game well.”

Turning the handle of the dagger, he offered its hilt to her. When she hesitated, he encouraged her with a few simple hand motions to take it.

Gingerly she grabbed hold of the object, but her fingers came into contact with his. At once, a charge like lightning raced over her spine, and without hesitation, her eyes sought his.

Had he felt that?

He was, indeed, staring back at her, and his gaze was intense. But again, he said not a word to her about it, and Marietta slowly let out her breath.

At last, when he chose to speak, his words were soft. “The first thing one must know about hunting and cleaning game is to realize that all life must eat in order to live. To survive, one must take from nature. But it does not also follow that life must be taken without thought. Life is precious to all. All life has a spirit, otherwise it would not be alive. And all life has a right to live.”

She nodded.

He continued, “And so if one is to take a life, no matter if it be plant or animal, the need must be great. Once the deed has been done, one must always thank the animal or plant which was killed, for the creature has given of himself that we might survive. This is why prayer is necessary. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she said gently, “although I have never heard of doing this before now.”

He lifted his shoulders. “I know. My Assiniboine sister is married to a white man.” Then, turning his attention again to the game, he handed one of the rabbits to her. “We begin here.” From his belt, he grabbed hold of yet another blade. With this, he ran its sharp edge from the anus of the animal up toward the head, cutting along its belly.

While she watched, Grey Coyote gutted the animal, pulling the skin from the body and washing the meat off in the creek. He even tore off any remaining fur. Then, without a word to her, he reached for the rabbit she was supposed to be skinning, and he did the same to it.

“Now,” he said, when it was done at last. “We shall find two long sticks and put the meat on those, place them in the fire, and we shall have a good meal.”

Marietta nodded. She offered him back his knife.

He shook his head. “Do you have a good blade?”

“Ah, no, I don’t.”

“Then you should keep that one. Here.” From the cord around his waist, he untied one of the buckskin sheaths, handing her its casing. “Keep the dagger in there. It will help to ensure it is kept sharp.”

“Yes.” She glanced down at the sheath. It was a beautiful piece of work that he loaned her, soft to the touch and decorated all over with red, green and yellow beads. She ran her fingers over those beads.

“Come,” he said after a while, getting to his feet. Once standing, he reached out toward her.

With some anxiety, Marietta stared at that proffered hand. She knew what would happen if she touched it. Awareness of him would swamp her. Sensation would engulf her. After all, it took little to recall what had happened to her with the merest of his touches only moments ago.

Her gaze caught on to his. Good heavens, he appeared as apprehensive as she felt.

Perhaps that was what decided her. At last, placing her hand in his, she allowed him to help her to her feet. If her breasts tingled because of it, and if that most private place between her legs ached for a moment, she decided to do as she believed he had done earlier—she would ignore his effect on her.