Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Five Years Later
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 sneakily take a stick out of the line up of the sticks he was keeping for Grey Coyote. It gave Grey Coyote ten sticks instead of the eleven 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 whiskey, 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 the 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 the 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 my sticks which sit before you.” Grey Coyote raised one of his eyebrows.
“There should be eleven sticks that you hold for me, for as you see, I received five points two rolls before this one. I had six sticks before and five makes eleven. Yet, there are only ten set before you.”
“Thees is not true, monsieur. Ye do not add correctly. Ye have only the ten.”
Grey Coyote’s stare was bold. “Show me your hands and what is in your lap.”
LaCroix’s eyes grew round, though he could still not match Grey Coyote’s direct gaze. “I have nothing in my lap, and”—
“Stand up!” Grey Coyote’s voice brooked no defiance.
LaCroix slowly stood to his feet, and sure enough there was the sound of a stick hitting the floor. “How could thees be? Eet must have fallen to my lap. Please excuse, monsieur.”
“Hau, hau,” said Grey Coyote, using the Assiniboine word for “yes.” “Let us hope there are no other sticks that are falling into your lap without your knowledge and going unnoticed by you.” Grey Coyote once more nodded toward LaCroix, and, reaching across the playing space, he handed LaCroix fifty sticks.
“These are for my last roll. There should now be sixty-one sticks in front of you.”
“Oui, oui.” LaCroix accepted the twigs they used in the game and commenced to set them out along the ground in front of him.
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 of them.”
“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, ye make a mistake. Look here, the claw, it does not appear to be on end. However, if ye insist, I will take yer word that it landed in the way ye say it did, and I 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 this man owned.
All he needed was the possession, the one thing that would help Grey Coyote solve the riddle, though at present what this 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 was 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 unpleasantries. 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 which 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 the 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.