Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
They traveled south and west, riding through the soft, balmy night. Grey Coyote appeared to take his direction from the North Star, since she observed his examination of it several times. So this was how Indians found their way.
As if by mutual consent, Marietta rode her own mount now, noting with some surprise that the animal had already been primed for this purpose. Her pony was equipped with buckskin reins and a blanket for a saddle.
Strange how the thought of escaping from this man now had the appearance of being ridiculous. Was it only this morning she had accused him of stealing her?
Perhaps he had done so, but she didn’t really care anymore. Though she had been in his presence for only a few hours, she felt as though she could trust him.
Would he take her to St. Louis? Could she use feminine wiles to her advantage? He had said maybe—if she performed well for him on their travels. But would she do well? After all, what did she know about camp life?
Glancing ahead toward Grey Coyote, she saw with some astonishment that he must have increased his pace, for he was leaving her behind.
“C’mon, pony,” she whispered to the mustang. “Let’s not let him get too far ahead.”
Soon, with very little effort, both were racing their mounts over the land. On the one hand, it was frightening. Dusky shadows darkened the earth, she couldn’t see where she was going, and images of prairie dog holes danced in her imagination.
On the other hand, the open spaces of the prairie seemed to urge a person to let go.
Not of anything in particular, but to simply give up her cares.
The peacefulness of the prairie, the expanses of the space, as though it were urging one to be free, pressed in on her. Despite herself, she felt unfettered.
The stars above her littered the sky from horizon to horizon. Indeed, from her position, their numbers looked to be so great she thought if she were to account for their total with a slash on a blackboard for each star, those slashes might well fill an entire room.
Marietta’s pony jostled beneath her, and she petted its neck and bent down. “What a good pony you are. You run like the wind.” At her words the animal snorted, creating the impression that it glowed with pride, appearing to step even more sure-footedly over uneven ground.
There was a constant wind in this place, Marietta noted.
But this was summer, and it was not a cold wind which blew at her, though at this late hour of the night, the breeze did tend to chill.
However, she had her dress, Grey Coyote’s shirt and his cloak to warm her, so it was not as if this were a hardship.
Glancing upward, she decided it was probably around midnight or perhaps later.
And if this were the case, then they had been riding hard for well over five hours.
Yet she was not very tired. Indeed, glancing off toward the north, Marietta spied a series of lights, columns of dancing brilliance. Now green, now blue, now yellow.
Had this just started? She didn’t recall seeing this earlier. Why, the whole northern sky was alight with streams of incandescence—a luster that looked as though it played in the heavens.
Were these the northern lights? They seemed unreal but fantastic. As she watched them, she felt childlike, as though she were privy to a treat.
Grey Coyote slowed to let her pony come up alongside his own, and he caught hold of its reins, unnecessarily pointing out the flares to her. She nodded, smiling at him, then gazed at the splendor again.
Some sixth sense had her looking back at him, and she was startled to realize he hadn’t taken his eyes from her.
“Is something amiss?” she whispered.
Grey Coyote didn’t respond to the question, and after a while, he simply turned away, setting his pony once more into dashing across the moonlit fields. Marietta followed, but at a more leisurely, thoughtful pace.
A wind rushed in her face, and it seemed as if it tried to speak to her.
But what it said was beyond her. Hours passed, and still Grey Coyote hurried onward, as though he had wagered himself against the coming sunrise.
It was only in the extreme darkness before dawn that Grey Coyote at last called a halt to their march.
Sighing deeply, still atop her mount, Marietta began to relax, looking forward to a restful sleep.
There had been no sleep so far this night.
None for her, for Grey Coyote or for their horses, either—not even a few hours.
After a too-brief meal of pounded, dried meat with fat and berries added—a meal she had once heard called pemmican—she and Grey Coyote shifted mounts, as though by this action, they would not overly tire any one pony.
They then had once again set out across the prairie.
They had traveled all morning, not taking the slightest rest. Many times it had been in Marietta’s mind to ask for respite, but each moment when she had formed the question on her lips, she had thought better of it.
After all, if her goal were St. Louis—and it was—the faster they traveled, the better.
But finally—and it must have been close to noon, for the sun had been straight overhead—they had stopped. But this had been several hours ago. Her task now was to light a fire.
Clink, clink, clink.
The sound of the flint and the iron pyrite, as she beat them against each other, was beginning to grate on her nerves.
After these last few hours’ work—and doing nothing but this same action over and over—it seemed to her as if the entire process were impossible.
She had never made a fire this way, and it didn’t look as though she would be lighting one now, either.
Straightening up, she raised the flap of their shelter’s entrance and glanced around the little gulch where they had settled, looking for any sign to indicate that Grey Coyote had returned. But nothing met her gaze except the now-familiar landscape of their gully.
It was a pretty place. On one side of the ravine ran a gurgling stream, and next to the stream grew a few short scrub trees, which clung to the shoreline. Each bush threw out delicate patches of shade, though so flimsy was the shade, it did nothing to give a human being any comfort.
Their meager abode was interesting, since Grey Coyote had fashioned the structure so it blended into the environment. Indeed, he had done this so well, their little lodge “disappeared” to the eye.
Marietta wasn’t certain how he had accomplished this, either.
She remembered earlier watching him position two boulders close together and had seen him throw his robe between and over those two stones.
The action had created their ceiling, of sorts.
He had then made a smoke hole at one end of the shelter, and over the entire thing he had laid grasses and plants and bushes, placing them around their dwelling, as though landscaping the entire structure.
Then she had lost interest in the activity, had glanced away, and the next thing she knew, she could barely detect that a shelter was even there.
However, though it was a piece of workmanship, the dwelling was temporary, surprising her as to how comfortable it was. Over the ground Grey Coyote had placed a buffalo robe—their “rug” or “floor”—and beside her were bags full of berries and fruit, as well as some roots, pemmican and water.
These, too, had been left by Grey Coyote, who had then informed her that she was to stay within the protection of their hideaway during his absence.
So saying, Grey Coyote had gathered the horses together and trudged off.
He had mentioned he would be looking for a place to keep the horses, some location distant from where they were camped, for if set to grazing next to their little niche, the animals would announce their presence.
Marietta had questioned Grey Coyote about the wisdom of doing this, certain that if put out on their own, the animals would either return to the wild or be stolen.
But Grey Coyote had shrugged, saying he would hobble them, but if they were stolen, it was no loss.
Ponies abounded on the plains, he said; he could always get more.
She did not quite understand his attitude. Did the man care nothing for his possessions?
But no amount of arguing could persuade Grey Coyote to do otherwise than what he thought best.
Clink, clink, clink. The sound of her efforts filled the small space.
“You will never light the fire this way.”
Marietta jumped. The low voice came from behind her, within the shelter itself. Where had the man come from?
Pressing her hand to her chest, she let out a breath. “Mr. Coyote, you frightened me. Not only did I not hear your approach…” she glanced around the interior, “…but how did you come to be here?”
“I did not intend for you to hear me.” He stared down at the array of small sticks she had gathered together. He crouched beside her. “Where did you find this tinder?”
“I took it from the ground.”
Grey Coyote picked up one of the sticks and examined it. “The storm must have blown these off the tree last night.” He bent the stick. “Do you see how green it is?”
“Yes, well, green wood will burn.”
“With difficulty, and with much smoke,” he countered. “Besides, even with dry twigs, one would never start a fire this way.”
Marietta, who had been sitting forward on her knees, flopped down, sitting back on her rump. She brought her knees to her chest, placing her arms around them. “Very well. Then tell me how it is done.”
“Surely you have lit a fire before this.”
“No, not in this manner, I have not. Where I come from we have matches.”
Grey Coyote nodded. “I have seen these, for my sister’s husband keeps them. They are a source of great mystery to the red man. But here on the plains, a man must learn to light a fire another way. One does not often find matches in nature.”
“No, I don’t suppose one would.” She gave him a shy glance. “Are you going to show me how it is done?”