Chapter 4 #2
After several moments he said, “Perhaps your husband did not make his meaning understood.”
Marietta opened her mouth to refute that word, husband, but the Indian was continuing. “I won the game of Cos-soo. You were part of the winnings, and—”
“I was what?”
The man behind her drew in yet another long breath, as though he were weary of the whole affair. In a voice he might have used to address a five-year-old, he said slowly, “Your husband told me that he…informed you of the outcome of our game before he gave you too much corn liquor.”
“Before he…?” She gulped. “Pardon me, Mister… Ah, I don’t know your name.”
The Indian didn’t answer the indirect question.
Marietta tried once more. “Mister…? You do have a name, don’t you?”
The man still didn’t reply, and Marietta attempted again to scoot forward.
At length, the man sat up, appearing as thouogh he were about to say something of importance, but he hesitated, while Marietta held her breath. “A warrior does not speak his own name.”
“Oh.” Marietta shot a glance over her shoulder. “Then what am I to call you?”
He shrugged but didn’t enlighten her.
Marietta closed her eyes and shook her very wet head. “Oh, this is perfect. Well, Mr…” she hesitated, “…Rainmaker-who-steals-women…”
She thought she saw him smile, but the gesture was so swiftly gone, she was not certain of it.
Another silence ensued. However, after a moment or two, she squared back her shoulders and began, “Well, Mr. Rainmaker, as I was saying, this may come as a shock to you, but I am not married. I have no husband.”
Again, she chanced a quick glance behind her, but perhaps her look was too swift. She could discern no reaction from the man at all. When he spoke, all he said was, “I am talking about the man who brought you to the Minnetaree village, the scout, LaCroix.”
“Scout LaCroix? Oh, you must mean Jacques LaCroix, of course. He is not my husband.”
“Yet you travel with him.”
“Yes.” Her ire rose. “Good Lord, is it a crime for a woman to travel with a man in this country? I did hire a maid to accompany me. I employed Jacques LaCroix to take me to a particular village. He is not my husband.”
“But he is.”
“No, he is not.”
The man paused. “You do not understand. In this country, when a woman travels, she goes alone, with her husband, or with other women. To be with a man who is not her husband…alone… Her reputation will be marred.”
“Yes, well, perhaps it is good then that my birth does not originate from this country, and also that I don’t care about my reputation.”
The man didn’t utter a word, but by his silence, Marietta felt that he must certainly disapprove. It compelled her to say, “Mr. Rainmaker…”
“Grey Coyote,” he finally supplied. “My name is Grey Coyote.”
“Very good. Thank you.” She nodded, her demeanor sweet and one that might have spoken well for her had they been discussing a harmless subject over a cup of tea and a tray of biscuits.
“Now, Mr. Coyote, understand, I was not alone. Yellow Swan, my maid, accompanied me. Also, where I come from, a woman may travel anywhere she pleases, and she may even hire a guide to take her to places, particularly if she does not know the lay of the land. And this is what I did. I engaged Jacques LaCroix, paid him money—gold—to bring me to St. Louis…a town farther south of here. That is all there is to it. Jacques LaCroix is no more my husband than you are.” She paused for emphasis. “And yet I am traveling with you.”
The rain began to fall a little harder, drowning out whatever the man might say. Despite this, she thought she heard Grey Coyote state, “I am your husband.”
“What was that?” she asked, addressing the man behind her.
Patiently, as though women were a breed apart from men, Grey Coyote repeated slowly, “I am your husband.”
“You are what?” she asked, squinting against the downpour. “Did… Did you say you are my husband?”
“That I am,” he validated. “By winning you in the game of the bowl, I have become your husband.”
Marietta sat as perfectly still as she was able, which was a feat, seeing as how she rode astride a pony. Briefly, she wondered if she had been dropped into some dramatic sideshow, a badly written play.
The rain seemed to splatter everywhere—on her, on him, on the pony, on the ground—and she was beginning to feel particularly cold, but for a reason she could not quite name, she was not of a mind to let this man know about the discomfort.
At last, she pulled her thoughts together.
“You can’t possibly be my husband. I barely know you. ”
“Yet I won you in the game, and until I can decide what I must do with you, I am your protector, which makes me your husband.”
“No. That makes you my protector and nothing more.”
“Hiya,” said the man. “It is you who does not understand. A husband is a protector. And this I must be until I can take you to your own people.”
Marietta sat up straight. Take her to her own people? Was there hope for her after all? “You…you…” she mumbled. “Do you mean that you will take me to St. Louis?”
“I do not know what this St. Louis is.”
“I told you. It is a village that lies south of here. It is a white man’s village, and it is situated on the western side of the Mississippi River.”
“Humph.”
“Then you are taking me there?”
“Hiya. No.”
“But…I thought you said…”
“I am en route to a trader’s post, where I will leave you. It is not far from here, and it is not called St. Louis.”
“I see.” Marietta slumped against her backrest, which was the man himself. Suddenly, she sat up straight again. “But…”
“I will take you no farther.”
She didn’t answer. A trader’s post? Something off the beaten track? She could very well be stuck there for months and months.
As they continued onward, the rain let up slightly, but a wind had started to blow, and Marietta grew colder yet.
Goose bumps appeared on her arms, and involuntarily she shivered, her teeth rattling.
When he tightened his arm around her—almost as involuntary an action as hers had been—she asked, “Is it necessary that we wander in this rain and wind? Couldn’t we stop, seek some shelter? ”
“Humph. The rain does not hurt a man, and it does much good over the land we tavel. If you look behind you, you will see that the rain wipes away our trail, making it hard to follow. And this might be good, for I think that your husband may be a poor loser.”
“He is not my husband,” she reiterated. “And, since we’re on the subject, neither are you.”
They both fell silent.
After a while, he continued, “The rain is good also for the life that is all around us. The rain is food.”
Marietta blew out a breath. Perfect. She was captured by a man who thought rain was food. What were they to eat? River water? “If you call this food, sir, I think you may have a strange idea of it. Rain is simply water. True, it is necessary for life, but it is hardly filling.”
“And yet it must be food, for a man cannot live without it.”
Marietta pressed her lips together. “It is not the same thing, and you know it. It is…water. It is not something one can chew. It is necessary, but…” She didn’t finish the thought, mostly because to her own ears she was beginning to sound shrewish.
Meanwhile, she and Grey Coyote fell into a rather protracted silence, during which Marietta tried to recall what had happened between herself and her guide.
Had LaCroix tried to explain this fate to her? If he had, she certainly didn’t recall it. No, her last memory before awakening to find herself in the arms of this man had been of Jacques LaCroix’s face swimming in her vision.
Sighing, she calmed herself. It could be worse. At least the Indian did not appear to be antagonistic, nor did he believe she was his captive. Perhaps it might be safe to assume that if she kept asking, she might be able to persuade him to help her.
To this end, she said, “You say you won me in this game with LaCroix?”
“Hau, hau.”