Walking Wolf (3 page)

I talked one of the older, more respected women in the tribe into approaching Flood Moon's father, Calling Owl, and putting my case to him. Calling Owl was very pleased that his daughter had caught the fancy of the tribe's resident skinwalker, as it meant good luck for his family. But when Flood Moon heard that I'd sent the old woman over, she begged her father to ask for thirty horses. Although Calling Owl considered a skinwalker son-in-law a good thing, he still loved his daughter enough to agree to her terms.

When the old woman told me how much Calling Owl wanted for Flood Moon, I was dismayed. Thirty ponies! I was thirteen years old and only had one pony to my name—and that was one Eight Clouds had given me! How was I to get thirty ponies? Well, the same way any Comanche got his ponies—it was up to me to steal some.

Now, let me digress a bit and explain horse-stealing, Comanchestyle. The Comanche set a great deal of stock in horseflesh—and if there was ever a people born to ride, it was them. Compared to, say, the Cheyenne, the Comanche were a short, squat race. On the ground, they were far from graceful—but on the back of a horse, they were poetry in motion. Since their society revolved around the horse, the Comanche used them as a rate of exchange. And the mark of a rich man was to have more ponies than he ever possibly ride.

A truly powerful chief would have dozens, if not hundreds, of ponies, most of them taken in raids from either other tribes or settlers. And while Whites considered horse-stealing the lowest thing next to snatching an infant nursing at its mother's breast and dashing its brains out against a wall—if not lower—Indians saw it as a valuable skill. In fact, when they weren't out hunting buffalo, the Plains tribes seemed to spend the vast majority of their spare time stealing horses from one another. Still, it wasn't without its hazards.

Although I was apprenticed to Medicine Dog, he did not forbid me riding with the others on raids. After all, how else was I going to make myself a respected member of the band if I didn't distinguish myself on the warpath? Medicine Dog might have had one eye in the Spirit World, but he was a practical man.

So I began joining the raiding parties, doing my best to help steal as many ponies as possible, so I could benefit at the end of a successful raid. Still, it was slow going for a brave as young as me, since the elder warriors got preferential treatment when it came to divvying up the spoils.

A year passed since I asked for Flood Moon's hand in marriage, and ten horses were and all I had to show for it. I still ached for her, and the waiting was driving me to distraction. Medicine Dog cautioned me and suggested I had much to learn about patience. Many Comanche braves waited until they were well into their twenties and were solidly established, with many ponies and buffalo robes to their name, before taking a wife. But my blood burned, and I was convinced that the only way I was ever to know happiness was if I took Flood Moon into my tipi and made her my wife.

One night, the Apaches raided our herd when most of the braves were away hunting, and all of my ponies were stolen. At first I was devastated. It had taken me so long to acquire those ten ponies, only to have them take from me! Then my grief turned to anger, and I became determined to reclaim my horses, plus as many more as I possibly could!

I set off after the Apache raiders on Medicine Dog's pony that very night, armed with nothing but a bow, some arrows and a knife. They had stolen close to a hundred horses; their trail wasn't hard to find. Still, they had a head start, and I knew once they made it to the hill country I wouldn't stand a chance.

I caught up with the raiders near dawn, several miles west of the camp. They had decided that they had gotten away scot-free and had stopped for a brief meal along the banks of a dry riverbed. As I watched them from a distance, I could tell the six braves responsible for the raid were very young—some no older than myself—and overconfident. A couple of them had rifles, which added to their cockiness.

It occurred to me that my decision to leave ahead of my fellow braves had been foolhardy. Here I was alone, armed with nothing but a bow and a knife, while my enemies carried guns. There was no way I could reclaim the horses without exposing myself to attack. Unless I took a lesson from the trickster himself …

The Apache brave keeping watch was surprised to see me. Then again, he probably hadn't seen many upright wolves dressed in breechclouts and buckskin leggings before.

“Greetings, Friend Human Being,” I smiled, licking my snout and speaking passable Apache. “I am Coyote.”

The Apache was so thunderstruck his knees began to wobble like a newborn colt's. He called out to his fellow braves, who hurried to see what was the matter. Naturally, they were equally amazed to see the trickster god of legend standing before them.

“I hope I am not bothering you fine warriors this beautiful morning,” I said, gesturing to the rising sun. “But I was passing by on my way to visit the Great Spirit, and could not help but notice what a beautiful herd of horses you have.”

“Th-thank you, Friend Coyote,” stammered the raiding party's leader. “You are going to see the Great Spirit?”

“Yes! I am going to ask certain favors for those who are my friends. Those blessed to Coyote receive good hunting and count much coup against their enemies. Did I mention before how fine your horses are?”

The Apache braves looked amongst themselves then glanced back at the herd they had stolen.

“Yes, the Great Spirit shows
great
respect for those who prove their generosity to others,” I continued, lying through my fangs. “Why, just the other day, the Wasp Band of the Comanche gave me ten horses …”

“Ten! Is
that
all?” snorted the Apache leader. “I would not call that ‘generous'!”

“Perhaps so,” I said. “But in any case, I must be on my way. Have a good journey, friend human beings.”

As I made to leave, the lead Apache called after me. “Friend Coyote! We cannot let you leave without giving you a gift!”

“A gift, you say? What of?”

“Ponies.”

“How many?”

I could tell he was trying to figure out how many ponies would be enough—he surely didn't want to offend a god important enough to put his case to the Great Spirit.

“Twenty—?”

I had him hooked but good. “Twenty? What a coincidence! Why, the Kiowa gave me a string of twenty ponies just last week.…”

“Forty, then!” the leader blurted.

I made a great show of scratching my chin in deliberation. “Forty? Friend Apache, you are truly a generous and great man! I shall be certain to mention your name first when I speak with the Great Spirit!”

You can imagine how surprised my tribe was when I rode back into camp, leading a string of forty ponies. When I told Medicine Dog how I succeeded in tricking the Apaches into returning my original ten horses, plus thirty more, the old coot came close to busting a gut laughing.

“Walking Wolf, you are indeed touched by the hand of Coyote! Only he could have wrested forty ponies from Apache braves without resorting to bloodshed!”

I showed up the next day in front of Calling Owl's tipi with the thirty horses needed to buy his daughter. Calling Owl was very pleased. Flood Moon, on the other hand, looked less than thrilled. She stood there, staring at her feet, as her father talked about how he was looking forward to grandchildren.

After Calling Owl and I had sealed the transaction with a smoke from his pipe, Flood Moon went into her family's tipi for the last time and removed her sleeping roll, her feeding bowl and a few other belongings. Walking behind me with her head still bowed, she followed me to my tipi. Suddenly I was married. Like I said, the Comanche were practical people who didn't go in much for ceremony.

“How do you like your new home, Flood Moon? Isn't this better than the lean-to I built when we were children and played camp together?”

Flood Moon said nothing as she unrolled her sleeping blankets. She didn't seem too impressed by her new home, but I tried not to let her lack of enthusiasm bother me. I reached out to embrace her, only to have her go rigid in my arms.

“Flood Moon, what is the matter?” I lifted her chin with my thumb and forefinger, but she looked away.

“I am frightened, Walking Wolf,” she replied. “I have never been with a man before.”

“But I am your husband! You need not fear me!”

She looked at me from the corner of her eyes, smiling shyly. “Go outside and smoke your pipe. When you finish, I will be waiting for you inside my sleeping robes, ready to be your wife.”

I was ready for her to be my wife right
then,
but I knew better than to hurry her. Comanche women could be shy, but once you got under them under the sleeping robes they were randier than a she-bear in heat. So I went outside, had me a smoke and watched the sun go down.

When I finished my pipe, I got up and stood by the tent flap. I called softly to my wife. “Flood Moon? Are you ready? I'm coming in now …”

The moment I set foot in the tipi, something crashed into the back of my head, knocking me to the ground, where I stayed—unconscious—until the next morning. When I came to, I discovered Flood Moon and her belongings were gone. The only thing she'd left behind was the grinding stone she'd used to coldcock me. Judging from the blood on the grinding stone, it looked like she meant to crack my braincase open for the whole world to see what a witless fool I was.

I staggered out of my tipi to find Medicine Dog waiting on me, puffing on his pipe. “So. You aren't dead,” he said, by way of greeting. “That is good to know.”

“Where's Flood Moon? Where is my wife?”

“She is gone.”

“Gone? Where did she go?”

Medicine Dog shrugged. “I do not know. She and Small Bear were very scared. “They left together last night. They thought they had killed you.”

“Small Bear? Flood Moon is with Small Bear?” I could feel the anger swell inside me. My head still ached and I did not want to hear what Medicine Dog was telling me.

My best friend. The woman I loved. Both had betrayed me. And worse, they had robbed me of my pride. I had been made to look a fool in the eyes of the tribe. Such a crime against my honor could not go unpunished. My distress was quite obvious. Medicine Dog put aside his pipe and tried to calm me.

“My son, do not let your anger drive you to do something worse than foolish.”

My head throbbed like a war drum and I doubled over, pushing at the sides of my skull to keep them from exploding outward. My anger was fueling the pain inside my head, forcing my body into its true-form. Medicine Dog stepped away from me. I had the bloodlust on me and he knew words would be useless.

Snarling like a beast, I fled the camp. I had the scent of Flood Moon and Small Bear, and I was determined to hunt them down and make them pay for their treachery.

It did not take me long to catch up with them. Like most
vargr,
I am a tireless runner.

The rage burning deep inside me kept me from growing weary. Although they had a whole night and day's head start on horseback, I found them not long after dark.

I saw their fire long before I saw them. They were alone except for each other and their horses, huddled against the coming night. Careful to keep upwind of their mounts, least they catch my scent and alert Small Bear, I circled their camp, listening to them as they talked.

I could tell from their words and actions that they had been lovers for some time. Small Bear sat with his rifle at the ready, Flood Moon pressed close to him. The sight of my best friend sharing an intimacy with my wife that I myself had never known stoked my anger even higher, until everything I saw was covered by a blood red scrim.

One of the ponies whickered nervously. Small Bear tightened his grip on his gun, peering into the dark beyond the fire as he got to his feet.

Flood Moon looked up at her lover, knuckling the sleep from her eyes. “Small Bear—what is wrong?”

“There is something out there.”

I came in low, tackling him from behind, snarling like a rabid wolf. Small Bear's rifle discharged as he hit the ground. Flood Moon screamed out her lover's name, driving the knife she'd kept hidden in her blanket into my right side. I yowled in pain and grabbed at the blade, giving Small Bear the chance to roll free and get back on his feet.

Unsheathing his own knife, he made to drive it into my heart. Growling, I knocked the weapon from his hands and pounced on him as a coyote would a prairie dog, my teeth sinking deep into his soft, hairless throat.

I don't want people reading this to think the fight was one-sided. Small Bear was a strong, swift brave, and he did not surrender easily to death. Still, I tore at his struggling body with my talons, gleefully ripping his bowels free of his stomach. Small Bear's liver, glistening brown-red in the campfire, lay on the prairie grass. Without pausing to think, I snapped the tender morsel up and devoured it on the spot.

Wiping my muzzle on my forearm, I turned my yellow gaze to Flood Moon, who stood transfixed, staring in horror at the ruined remains of her lover. Smiling, I plucked her knife from my side as if it were no more bothersome than a thorn.

“Wife,” I said, holding up the dripping blade. “Is this how you greet your husband?”

She gave a sob of fear and turned to flee, but I was too fast for her. I grabbed her by her braids, wrapping them around my forepaws so her face was within biting distance. Her eyes were huge with fear, and the smell of her terror radiated like heat from the sun. Grinning, I licked her face with my tongue, laughing as she shuddered and began to cry.

I took her there, beside the cooling body of her lover. She screamed and whimpered and pleaded with me repeatedly as I raped her—for that was what I did, I don't deny it. But all her begging did was fuel my desire to punish her even further. By the time my lust had run its course, Flood Moon bled from dozens of deep bites and scratches on her breasts, belly, buttocks and thighs. Sated at last, I pulled myself from her quivering, sobbing body and collapsed beside her in a deep slumber.