Chapter Two

The Minnetaree Village

A Permanent Indian Village of mud huts on the Knife River

Upper Missouri Territory—in what is today the State of North Dakota

Summer 1835

From the corner of his eye Grey Coyote watched the white man sneak a stick into line beside those that were already present, giving the white man eleven sticks instead of the ten he had won fairly.

So, the white man has no honor.

Grey Coyote raised a single eyebrow and cast a glance across the few feet that separated him from the white man, the man the Minnetaree Indians called the scout, LaCroix. LaCroix was French, as were many of the white men in this country. His face was pale and bearded, his hair long, dark and scraggly. His breath stank of the white man’s whisky, and his body smelled of dirt and grime.

None of this bothered Grey Coyote. In truth, he was smiling at the man, although the expression could hardly be called one of good humor. After a moment, Grey Coyote said, “Darkness has fallen again. We have been playing for longer than a full day now.”

LaCroix grunted.

“As you know, we are both guests here, in my friend’s lodge, in the Minnetaree village,” continued Grey Coyote. “And I would hardly be the cause of a fight if I could avoid it, for it would bring shame to our host, Big Eagle.”

Grunting again, LaCroix looked away. His gaze shifted from one object in the room to another, not centering on anything in particular, not even on the lovely white woman who reposed on one of their host’s beds in a corner of the hut.

As discreetly as possible, Grey Coyote let his gaze rest on that golden-haired beauty. He had never before seen a white woman, and to say that Grey Coyote was surprised at her appearance would have been an understatement.

He would have assumed the white man’s woman would be as unkempt and perhaps as hairy as her male counterpart. But this simply was not so. The woman was uncommonly pretty. Slim, small and curvy, with tawny hair that reached well to her waist, the woman’s coloring reminded him of a pale sunset—luminous, translucent, mysterious.

Her eyes were as tawny as her hair, like those of a mountain lion’s. Even at this distance, and despite the ever-growing darkness in the one-room hut, Grey Coyote could discern their color. It was a rare shade to be found here on the plains, where the eye colors of dark brown and black dominated.

Warming to his subject, he noted thoughtfully that the white woman’s skin was also quite fair, unblemished. Her cheeks were glowing, as pale and pink as the prairie rose. To his eye, she was a beautiful sight.

But she paid no heed to the people sharing this hut, not sparing so much as a glance at another being, except perhaps the Indian maid who appeared to serve her. In truth, the white woman seemed lost in her own thoughts.

Maybe this was best. From the looks of her, she might prove to be more than a mere distraction to him if he took a liking to her, something Grey Coyote could ill afford.

Slowly, Grey Coyote returned his attention to the matter at hand. The game of Cos-soo had been started a day ago, Grey Coyote being more than ready to gamble with this particular white man.

After all, LaCroix fit the description of the white man whom he sought. Perhaps this was the chance Grey Coyote awaited.

But to find the man cheating?

Clearing his throat, Grey Coyote spoke again. “I admit it is dark, growing ever darker as we sit here. I concede, too, that a good many hours have passed since we decided to begin this game, but do not think that because of this my eyes are so tired that they do not see.”

“What? What is it that monsieur insinuates?” asked LaCroix, his look incredulous.

Grey Coyote nodded toward LaCroix’s sticks with his forehead. “I am keeping track of the number of your sticks.” Grey Coyote raised one of his eyebrows. “There should be ten sticks that you hold, for as you see, you received ten points for your roll. Remember, you had lost all of your other sticks in the previous roll.”

“That is not true. I kept one stick that was left over from before. I should have eleven sticks, not ten.”

Grey Coyote’s stare was bold. “You lost the last bet.”

LaCroix’s eyes grew round, though he could still not match Grey Coyote’s direct gaze. “Is it true? I thought that… Oui, oui,” he blurted out, his words accompanied by a chuckle. “Ye are right. What was I thinking? I do not know how this other stick came to be here, for I had taken all my sticks away. Perhaps two sticks stuck together. Oui, I am sure that is it.”

“Hau, hau,” said Grey Coyote, using the Assiniboine word for “yes”. “Let us hope that no other sticks see fit to stick together.” Grey Coyote once more nodded toward LaCroix, and reaching across the playing space handed LaCroix fifty sticks. “These are for my last roll.”

“Oui, oui.” LaCroix accepted the twigs and commenced to set them out along the ground beside the two men.

Grey Coyote carefully watched the man at his work, not fooled by LaCroix’s attempt at sleight of hand. “Scout LaCroix, I gave you fifty sticks, the amount of my throw. But you have only set out twenty.”

“But, monsieur, I have done this because it is the number of sticks that is appropriate for your roll. Do ye see? Ye rolled five burnt sides, which is four points each, or twenty.”

Grey Coyote narrowed his brow. “You should look closely at the bowl. Do you not see that the big claw stands on end, red side up? As you and I know, that is worth thirty.”

“Is it standing? Surely you jest, monsieur, for I do not see the big claw stand on end.” LaCroix leaned over, as though to more carefully peer into the polished wooden bowl that was used to throw the dice. The man came so close to his target that he bumped into it, though it was surely no accident. The big claw—the one dice that garnered the highest points—fell to a different position. “Monsieur, you make a mistake. You see, the claw, it does not appear to be on end. However, if ye insist, I will take yer word that it landed that way, and will set out the extra thirty sticks.” His eyes didn’t quite meet Grey Coyote’s.

“Do not bother,” Grey Coyote spoke after a long pause. Though LaCroix’s actions more than alarmed him, Grey Coyote trained his features into a bland expression. He would let the incident pass. After all, it was not in his mind that he had to win everything that this man owned. All he needed was the possession, the one thing that would help Grey Coyote solve the riddle, though at present what that particular possession was escaped him. He said evenly, “We must both pay more attention in the future.”

“Oui, oui, monsieur. And now, if ye insist, ye may have another turn, since ye believed that the big claw stood on end.”

Grey Coyote shrugged. “It is not necessary. I will give you the next roll.”

“Oui, oui,” uttered LaCroix, and after picking up the bowl with four fingers placed inside its immaculately polished rim, he threw the dice up by striking the bowl on the ground.

 

Maria Marietta Welsford tapped her foot impatiently. Yes, it was storming outside the hut. Yes, their party had needed to stop for the night. This she understood, but this game had been going on for over twenty-four hours, and still her guide wasn’t ready to leave. Time was of the essence for her, and it was all she could do to sit still.

How long would it take her to return to England? Would she arrive there in time to claim the family estate, Rosemead, an endowment she had thought lost to her forever?

It had taken two months for her to receive the solicitor’s letter. Of course she had responded to it at once, but would her reply reach England in time?

And what about her uncle? Was it true that he had disappeared?

It would appear so. According to the solicitor’s note, upon her uncle’s disappearance, legal queries had arisen, which had led to certain discoveries. Her uncle, the current Earl of Welsford, was not and had never been the rightful inheritor of Rosemead, though all those years ago the man had pretended to be.

Worse, during his reign, Marietta’s uncle had mismanaged the estate. He had accrued gambling debts, among other things. Creditors needed paying. It now appeared that the funds for her uncle’s endeavors could no longer be lawfully taken from the inheritance.

To Marietta, it all seemed too fantastic to be true. After all these years, to learn that she was Rosemead’s true inheritor?

It was a daunting realization.

Yet if she tarried now, she feared the solicitors might be forced to conclude she was dead.

At the thought, Marietta’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. Rosemead, the place that harbored so many memories, might go to someone outside the family, for she had no brothers or sisters.

No, there was nothing else for it. She must hurry. Time seemed to be flying by since the solicitor’s letter had found her; the fact that it had found her was a miracle in itself.

It had come via Captain William Clark, who was acquainted with the party in which Marietta traveled. He had remembered Marietta and had passed the correspondence along to her by way of an Indian runner.

Yet, since receiving that letter, minutes, hours, days were her enemy.

However, attempting to explain this to someone here in the American West was rather like defining complicated mathematics to a child. Alas, in the Western wilderness there was no time clock. Events either happened at an even rate, or at a very slow pace, for to these Westerners, time was something held in great abundance.

If only she could travel on her own, or hasten her guide. But neither action seemed possible. Her escort, Jacques LaCroix, appeared to manage his life in a tempo that was akin to sluggishness.

At least Marietta possessed enough gold to buy her passage from the man. Unconsciously, she placed her hand over her purse, which was, for safety, resting on a string around her neck and tucked beneath her chemise.

The coin had come from Princess Sierra, Marietta’s former mistress. Upon learning of Marietta’s inheritance, Princess Sierra, a Spanish aristocrat, had generously bestowed the gold to her friend, giving her more than enough to see Marietta back to England.

A good friend she was too. Was it not Princess Sierra who, so many years ago, had rescued Marietta from obscurity? And at a time when Marietta had no one to turn to?

Still, despite this, it was not in Marietta’s heart to forgive her uncle what he had done. Unwittingly, she thought back to so many years ago…

 

“Have a seat, Marietta.” The Earl of Welsford, Marietta’s uncle, indicated an empty seat across from his massive desk.

Ten-year-old Marietta hobbled forward to do as he bid, sitting and at once disappearing into the immense chair.

“As you know, there are hard times upon us. Your father and mother did not provide for you as well as they might.”

Marietta frowned. “But Papa always said that if anything ever happened to him, there was money enough to support me.”

“The mere wishes of a dreamer. You must know that your doctor bills alone have forced your aunt and me into debt in order to pay them.”

Marietta remained mute, but she knew that her uncle lied. He gambled. If her family’s money were gone, she was certain it was this which had consumed it.

“Your aunt and I simply cannot continue to support you on the meager inheritance your father left us.”

Marietta said nothing, but she became apprehensive.

“But come, don’t look so downtrodden, girl. I have made arrangements for you. An opportunity has presented itself, and I was quick to take advantage of it, being the smart businessman that I am. Starting next week, you will be in service to a princess, a royal princess. The arrangements have all been made.”

“You have sold me into service?” Even at ten years of age, Marietta understood the implications of this.

“Come, girl, there is no need to stare daggers at me. It is not so bad. You will be serving royalty. Only those of gentle birth are allowed such a grand opportunity.”

Marietta kept her tongue, but she was certain that the only one who had received any “opportunity” was her uncle.

However, the earl rose, towering over her. He smiled, though there was more self-indulgence in the expression than good humor. “Marietta, Marietta, don’t look like that. It’s not the end of the world. The princess is your age. You’ll be tutored along with her as though you yourself were royalty. You’ll be treated well.”

“But I will be a servant.”

“A servant to royalty, Marietta. Others should be so lucky.”

“Then let someone else have the opportunity.”

The earl merely smiled once more. “All must work for their keep, Marietta, even the tiniest ant. It is already done. The arrangements have been made. You will leave in a week’s time. Now, that is all.”

 

Marietta had never forgotten, nor forgiven.

It wasn’t as if her life with the princess had ever been one of distress. Quite the contrary. But a person liked to think herself the purveyor of her own deeds, and servitude was still servitude.

Crash!

The roar of thunder shook the ground, causing Marietta to reach out toward Yellow Swan, the young Indian woman who was not only her maid, but who had become her friend.

“That…that lightning strike was close. Do you know anything about these huts? Are we safe here?” Marietta glanced quickly toward the young woman.

“We…safe,” said Yellow Swan soothingly, and Marietta smiled, admiring the other woman.

Yellow Swan’s friendship had truly been a blessing. Not only was Yellow Swan kindhearted, she was pretty, in an exotic sort of way. She had been stationed at the American Fur Company for some time, and that time had lent her an unusual ability: She could hold a conversation, though stilted, in English. Plus, Yellow Swan was acquainted—at least a little—with the white man’s ways.

But why Yellow Swan had even come to the fort owned by the American Fur Company, and why she had chosen to remain there—for she had not married any of the white men who worked there—Marietta had never been able to ascertain.

One thing was certain, however. Yellow Swan was quite alone in the world, and when Princess Sierra had approached her—for the princess had been seeking someone to accompany Marietta—Yellow Swan had been quite happy about the arrangements.

Personally, Marietta suspected that Yellow Swan was hoping to reunite with family. It was the most Marietta had ever learned from Yellow Swan: The woman searched for someone or several someones.

At that moment, Yellow Swan turned toward her, placing her hand over Marietta’s. Though her eyes were wide, the maiden repeated, “We…safe. More safe than…if we…be…on plains.”

“Yes, of that I’m certain,” said Marietta. “But how secure is that?”

“Good,” replied Yellow Swan. “Good…safe…”

Marietta shivered. “I hate thunderstorms. I have never been in one when there hasn’t been something bad that’s happened.”

Yellow Swan gave Marietta a puzzled look. “Then…white friend must not…seen…many.”

“I have sat through plenty of thunderstorms. But always they are destructive. They kill trees, sometimes they kill animals, sometimes people.”

Yellow Swan nodded. “Han. Very…bad.”

“Yes,” agreed Marietta. “Very bad.” In a voice so low it was barely audible, Marietta whispered, “My parents were killed in a lightning storm.”

“Parents? Killed?”

Marietta glanced away. “Many years ago, my father and mother were traveling in a carriage—it was late at night. They shouldn’t have been out on the roads. But they were anxious to take me to a physician who was unable to travel to our home. It was an unusual thing to do, but they were afraid I wouldn’t survive until morning, you see. I was very young and I was sick.

“As they traveled, a storm came upon them. Lightning struck close to the road. Too close. The horses bolted. The carriage overturned on a cliff. My parents were caught in the coach, whereas I…I was thrown free…”

Silently Yellow Swan pressed Marietta’s hand.

“I still carry the scars of that accident.” Marietta showed Yellow Swan the scar that ran up her forearm. “I couldn’t walk for two years. I suppose that’s what eventually drove my uncle to put me into service. I believe he thought I would be a burden to him for the rest of my life.”

“Put…in…service?”

Marietta gazed up briefly at Yellow Swan. “Do you remember Princess Sierra? High Wolf’s wife? The woman who introduced us?”

The Indian maiden nodded.

“For fourteen years I was her maid—a service which is rather like what you are with me, except I was bound to the princess forever, or until she no longer had need of my service. The only difference between what I was and what you are to me is that you are only traveling with me as far as St. Louis. You are also here at your own free will, something I was not allowed.”

“Ahh…”

“Nevertheless,” said Marietta, “the arrangement with the princess turned out well. Under Princess Sierra’s care, I recovered fully, for the princess demanded little of me, except that I be her friend.”

In the distance, more thunder sounded, but it was so far away it no longer seemed a threat. However, the clouds overhead must have opened up completely, for when the rain came, its downpour was furious. At once, moist air swept into the room.

Taking a whiff of the rain-soaked air, Marietta asked, “Will it rain inside the hut tonight?”

“Hiya, mistress…safe. No rain…here.”

“Good. That is good.” With a sigh, Marietta set her attention to other things, 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 that she doubted if a white dress trailed over it would show any signs of dirt.

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 that blaze were always lit. What was more, an earthen pot, containing some sort of soup, was suspended over that 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 a low seat 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? That must 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.”

“Strange thing. 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, that person, if he be male, becomes your 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?”

“Like a grandmother, a guardian, a protector for a young girl when she is with a man.”

“Ah, chaperone. Yellow Swan can be…chaperone.” Yellow Swan pointed to herself. “This one…think she with you…to cook…mend moccasins…help with…chores. Not realize…she chaperone.”

“Oh, I see. There has been a misunderstanding between us. No wonder you have looked at me strangely these past few nights when I have slept alone.”

“It is so.”

“Well, please keep this well in mind. There is nothing between myself and Jacques LaCroix. Nothing. Truly.”

“Han. Yellow Swan understand. White woman not married. Not worry…about…reputation.”

Again, Marietta sighed. “Well, at least that’s partially right. I don’t worry about my reputation…here.” With a last fleeting glance at the two men, Marietta ran her hand over the smoothness of the hide beneath her. It was as soft as silk. “Yellow Swan, will we sleep on this bed tonight?”

Yellow Swan nodded. “Han. This bed…ours…tonight. We…no sleep…outside like…last night. We in home…Big Eagle. Him…took pity on us…welcome us. If…we pull skin…around bed…” she gestured upward, “…no eyes…see. Have much…privacy.”

“Is that what this hide curtain is for?”

Again, Yellow Swan nodded. “Pull it…around…you undress. No one…see. We sleep.”

“Good,” said Marietta. “Good.” With one final flick of her gaze at the two men, Maria Marietta Welsford proceeded to do exactly that.