Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Grey Coyote was not so caught up in the game of Cos-soo that he was unaware of exactly when the white woman arose and pulled the curtain around the bed to give her privacy.
Since he had begun this game with LaCroix, he had only seen the woman seated, and he was curious to note if, once she stood to her full height, the white woman was as small and slender as she appeared to be.
Grey Coyote was not disappointed. Despite the odd manner in which the woman was dressed—for he did not understand the white woman’s style of clothing—he could clearly see that her breasts were full, her waist tiny.
Her hair, her glorious, golden hair, spilled down over her back and shoulders when she stood, as though her mane were a cascade of evening sunlight. It even shone, here in the firelight, imbued for a moment with a life of its own.
In spite of himself, Grey Coyote was more than aware of his physical response to her beauty…a response he quickly quelled.
Staring at LaCroix, Grey Coyote asked, “Does your wife know that you gamble?”
“Monsieur?”
Grey Coyote nodded toward the women. “Your wife. Does she know the stakes involved in this game?”
“I am n—” The Frenchman stopped speaking suddenly. He frowned. “My wife does not interfere, monsieur. She is a good woman.”
Grey Coyote nodded. “You are a lucky man.”
“Oui. I am a lucky man. Very lucky.” He smiled, the gesture emphasizing yellow and uneven teeth. “And so you should beware.”
It was this last statement that set Grey Coyote to grinning, as well. “Hau, hau,” he said, “I am well warned.”
“Oui, monsieur. Oui.”
Thunder boomed outside. Lightning struck in the distance, only to crash into the ground much closer to hand.
Water poured down from the heavens as though seeking vengeance.
Darkness had advanced across the land like a curtain, and the constant patter of the rain against the roof became a backdrop to the highly charged game that was taking place within the Minnetaree mud hut.
Here, inside the hut, while the white woman and her maid slept, excitement rose, for LaCroix was losing desperately—everything he had.
Their host, Big Eagle, had spread word of the game throughout the village, and, within a very short time, a crowd of people—twenty to thirty men and women—had swarmed around the players.
It was to be expected, for it was not often that men risked a game of Cos-soo, since one of the opponents would almost always end in ruin. Many of the villagers had begun placing their own bets on the outcome of the game, causing the tension in the room to reach fever pitch.
Would LaCroix go the entire distance? Would he lose all he had? Or would he call a halt to it before the last of his possessions were taken from him?
Already he had lost most of his clothing, his knife, his powder horn, his rifle and his horses. Would he gamble away the only possessions he had left, two more horses, his whiskey, his two women?
It was LaCroix’s roll. Nary a sound, outside of the crackle of the fire, could be heard. Nervously, LaCroix clutched the wooden bowl as he spanned his fingers around its polished rim. So tightly did he grip it, that his fingers were white.
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?”
Grey Coyote scowled. He still would not take the bait that LaCroix so willingly offered. He was not to be roused into anger, nor bow to the need to justify himself.
As for the woman, though Grey Coyote’s body screamed with interest, he would pass up the opportunity. Indeed, it was his only choice. He, more than anyone, knew that his heart was not available to any woman, that his duty to his people prevented him from taking a wife.
Hiya. No. Once this day, he had already had cause to suppress his physical desire, at least in relation to the golden-haired woman. And this from a mere glance, and at a distance across the room. What would be his predicament were she to be in his constant presence?
He said, “I will not gamble for the woman, and I am not afraid of the white people. I have a relative who is white—he is a trader and married to my adopted sister.”
LaCroix squinted. “And he taught ye English?”
Grey Coyote sat up straight. “He did.”
“Well, my friend, I am afraid that it is not yer decision to make. Ye committed to this game, same as I. If I want to put up my wife as stakes, it is my decision to make, not yers.”
Grey Coyote grimaced. What LaCroix said was true. By the rules of the game, once begun, Cos-soo was continued until one or the other of them was ruined. And LaCroix, being almost destroyed, claimed the right to either stop or continue to try to recoup his losses.
Grey Coyote said, “You are willing to lose such a fine woman?”
“I have already told ye that I am.” LaCroix pushed forward a stick. “This represents my fine, white-skinned wife.”
Briefly, Grey Coyote’s gaze met that of LaCroix’s. With a simple nod, Grey Coyote accepted the bet.
LaCroix smiled and reached for the Cos-soo bowl. Whispering a prayer, the man breathed in deeply, then slammed the bowl on the floor, turning it this way and that.
At last, it was done.
The crowd’s murmuring stopped. A hush fell over the room.
Both men sat forward to inspect the contents of the bowl.
With only a slight pause to note the exact count of the roll, Grey Coyote called out, “The big claw is on end, which is thirty sticks. There are three red claws, or fifteen, a total of forty-five. No burnt sides up, no blue sides up, one eye up, or no points, and three concaves up, or three. A total of forty-eight sticks.”
Grey Coyote accepted the forty-eight sticks from LaCroix for the man’s roll. It would be a difficult roll to beat, and secretly Grey Coyote thought his chances were slim.
“It is your roll, monsieur,” said LaCroix unnecessarily.
“Hau, hau,” agreed Grey Coyote, and picking up the smoothly polished Cos-soo bowl, he, too, breathed out deeply. Then, after pounding the object on the ground and twisting it round and round, he let go, the pot falling still.
In the background the fire blazed and the rain pattered down from the heavens. Both men, as well as most of the audience, leaned forward, peering into the dish.
As though in a daze, LaCroix scooted so far forward he might have fallen onto the bowl, unsettling it, as he had done once before this evening. This time their host, Big Eagle, was there, and catching hold of LaCroix, Big Eagle pulled the Frenchman back, away from the center.
“Pardone,” said LaCroix. “I felt suddenly dizzy.”