Chapter 3 #3
Wakonda, LaCroix is my enemy, to whom I must show kindness, to whom I must aid.
Because the possession that concerns us is the woman, I conclude that I must return the white woman to LaCroix.
For as any man knows, to take away one’s wife is to steal a man’s heart.
Further, if I am to act as ‘it’, or to act as the possession would act, would not the woman desire to stay with her husband?
Wakonda, therefore, the action I should take will be to hand back the woman to LaCroix.”
Grey Coyote waited. Nothing happened at first. Had he done it? Had he ended the curse? His heart beat out a fast cadence, and his hopes rose, for the star still shone brightly.
As quickly as the clouds had earlier moved aside, they now stirred briskly in the opposite direction, forming a curtain over the star, hiding it.
The thunder rumbled, it spun, it roared, its noise sounding to Grey Coyote’s ears like the mockery of laughter.
And then, as swiftly as all that had come before, the star was gone.
Grey Coyote’s arms fell to his sides, and silently he bowed his head.
He had failed. Once again, he had failed. Almost desperately, he whispered, “Wakonda, show me how to understand this riddle. For in all this time, I have never guessed it correctly.” Raising his face to the heavens, he cried, “Wakonda, I ask you. How can any man act as that which he possesses?”
There was no answer, unless of course one considered the wind a living entity. But at present, Grey Coyote was too distraught to hear its voice.
The Creator had gone, this was all that mattered, and despondent, Grey Coyote turned away.
His thoughts were gloomy. And why not? In his opinion, his life was practically wasted.
Was this his fate? To drift from one white man’s post to another? Always seeking the man who would fit the description from his vision?
As though in answer, it began to rain. Grey Coyote grimaced. Always, when he failed, the heavens spit rain. Grey Coyote assumed it was another of the Thunderer’s quests to discourage him and to make it seem as if he were unimportant.
Stepping back to the Minnetaree village, Grey Coyote made his way to Big Eagle’s lodge.
Entering, he trod toward the fire to pick up the possessions he had won this night, for now, since his theories were proved wrong, he would need to keep these hard-won possessions, if only to study them, so he might guess more accurately next time.
Looking up, Grey Coyote observed LaCroix, there against the far wall of the hut. Already, the man stood over the white woman, who was sound asleep. LaCroix bent toward her sleeping form, awakening the woman.
Grey Coyote turned away from the sight, to allow the couple a moment alone in which to say their farewells. He left the lodge as silently as he had entered it.
Besides, there were many other chores to be done for departure, more important tasks, indeed. For one, Grey Coyote should prepare the horses for the journey ahead—both her horse and his would need attending.
Stepping toward the four ponies he now owned—three having been LaCroix’s, one his own—he loaded his possessions onto two of the ponies. These would act as pack horses while the other two could carry himself and the woman.
The woman…
The mere thought of her triggered a physical response, and a very male part of his body twitched as though in anticipation of what was to come.
But Grey Coyote contained the reaction, reminding himself that she was his for but a moment.
It was Grey Coyote’s intention to take the woman to a white man’s post as soon as he determined what part she played, if any, in his own drama.
Though it was fairly obvious to him that his speculation about her tonight was wrong, for she surely had nothing to do with resolving his own problem, he would study her until he was certain.
Then he would take her to a white man’s post, and there he would leave her, untouched, whole.
It was the only honorable way to discharge his responsibility toward her.
For, though she would be considered his wife, he knew better than most that until he resolved this riddle, his life would not allow for a female in it.
So it was with some degree of chagrin that Grey Coyote heard the wind murmuring in his ear, “The woman,” it whispered. “The woman, Marietta. She is the means…”
“Wake up, mademoiselle. It is time to go.”
Comfortable for the first time in many a night, Marietta turned over and yawned.
Lazily, she stretched her arms above her head and peeped open an eye.
Except for the fire, the room around her was pitched in complete darkness.
But this she had come to expect. Since she had begun this journey, she and the others were almost always up and on the trail before first light.
However, she feared this day might be her toughest yet. From all appearances, the rain hadn’t let up, for it was still pattering wildly against the mud hut. Hardly the sort of noise a woman wanted to hear upon first awakening.
“Ohhh,” she purred and stretched again. “Do I have to get up? This bed is so comfortable, I should like to stay here and rest more tonight. Could we not do it?”
“Non, we must leave here at once. And do not speak so loudly. Others sleep. Here,” whispered LaCroix. “I have made ye a cup of coffee.”
“That was kind of you.” Marietta brought the rawhide cover with her as she sat up. Reaching out toward LaCroix, she accepted the cup—a hollowed-out horn—full of the steaming brew.
She took a sip of the stuff and winced. “Oh! It’s quite bitter, isn’t it?” she commented sleepily.
“Is good for you. Ye drink it while I get the horses ready.”
“I will,” said Marietta. “But have you made some of this brew for Yellow Swan? She should have some too, since I think she might need it more than I. Look at her. She’s still sleeping.”
“Oui, I will do for her, too. But ye do not need to awaken her yet. As ye know, she does not require so long to prepare herself for the day as do ye. Now drink up.”
“Yes, I will.” She took another sip of the coffee. “Hmmm. It rather grows on you, doesn’t it?”
“Oui, drink.”
Marietta did as told, and, with one sip after another, she finished the entire brew, handing the cup back to a rather anxious-looking LaCroix.
“Get yerself dressed, mademoiselle. I will prepare the horses, and then I will return soon with more coffee for both yerself and Yellow Swan.”
Marietta nodded. But it was odd. She felt suddenly spinny, as though the whole world careened out of control. Worse, she felt…drunk…
“Jacques.” She reached out toward the man. “There is a peculiar feeling coming over me. You didn’t…you didn’t… Jacques, did you put something in that drink? Besides coffee?”
“Oui. But only a dash of corn liquor and—”
“Corn liquor? But why? I don’t drink spirits, because I can’t…because…because…”
“And a trace of laudanum,” said LaCroix.
“Laudanum? But…”
Her words were becoming slurred. Her head spun, her eyes rolled back, and she was aware of her body collapsing back against the bed. “Why…did…you?”
The last thing she remembered was the image of Jacques LaCroix leaning over her, saying, “Perhaps it was a bit more than a trace, mademoiselle.”
And then he laughed.