Running Wolf. Jenna Kernan

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      His chief frowned. “The captive belongs to the captor. If Turtle Rattler determines that she is not a witch, then let Running Wolf do as he likes with her.”

      Running Wolf squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as the relief struck him like a kick in the gut. When he opened them it was to find all staring at him; some looked expectant, hopeful. Did they all want to have their turn with her? The notion filled him with a surging of white-hot rage, and he set his jaw to keep from revealing the strange, unwelcome emotions. Why was it so hard to consider sharing her? She was only a woman, an enemy.

      Yet she was more. His heart knew it; his body knew it. Only his mind rebelled.

      What was he to do with his captive? How to keep her safe, exclusively his and still appear the war chief?

      Running Wolf opened his mouth to say that he would leave the decision up to Iron Bear. But instead he found himself saying, “I would give her to my mother.”

      The chief’s brow wrinkled. “Your mother has never needed help caring for her lodge, and you have kept her cooking pot full. Why do you think she needs a woman to help her?”

      “I will keep her cooking pot full for as long as the Great Spirit allows. But I am considering a wife and so will be leaving my mother’s tepee. I am afraid she will be lonely.”

      “She could take a husband,” said Iron Bear. “It is past time.”

      He thought so, too, but when he’d said as much to his mother, her fury had been like the whirlwinds.

      Running Wolf nodded. “If she wishes.”

      “Now it is time to smoke,” said their shaman.

      The pipe was lit and passed. The men talked and joked. Everyone wanted Weasel to again wear the headpiece made from the mane of a black horse. Once the roached hair was tied to his head he looked so much like the Crow warriors that Running Wolf was not surprised he had fooled the young boys watching the herd. With meat for the dogs and a costume designed to deceive, Weasel had walked right among the horses of the Crow.

      Running Wolf would normally have found pleasure in the ritual of smoking the sacred tobacco and having an opportunity to hear stories of their success retold for the members of the council of elders. But now he saw the stories as an endless delay that kept him from where he truly wanted to be.

      Where was Snow Raven and what was happening to her?

      Turtle Rattler had kept the men from her, for now, but what about the women?

      Finally the men dispersed, but just before he took his leave, the chief called out to him. Running Wolf gritted his teeth at the delay as Red Hawk swept out the circular door. He caught the eye of Big Thunder and motioned his chin toward Red Hawk. His friend nodded and followed after Red Hawk as Running Wolf sat close to the chief, who now extended his hands to the fire.

      He motioned to the upright feathers on Running Wolf’s head. The eagle feathers each carried a red bar, marking his success at killing six warriors in battle. Had he stopped to kill Bright Arrow by slitting his throat or taking his scalp, he would have earned an additional feather, notched for this new coup. But he had chosen to take the woman rather than kill the man.

      “I think Weasel has earned a feather for his stealth.”

      Running Wolf smiled and nodded.

      “And you have led your first successful raid. It is my wish to mark your success with this.” He withdrew an eagle feather topped with tufted white downy feathers and the hair from the tail of a white horse that once belonged to Iron Bear. “I will present it formally at the feast, but I wanted to tell you that it was given to me by Kicking Buffalo after my first successful raid.”

      “I am honored,” said Running Wolf, feeling the glow of pride. This was what he wanted, to lead his people. To earn coups with brave deeds. To walk the Red Road as the Creator intended and to bring honor to his people. One day soon he would earn enough feathers to have his own war bonnet, and later, perhaps a coup stick fluttering with a hundred feathers.

      “Before you go, I would like to ask you a question.”

      Running Wolf leaned forward, anxious for some new quest, another opportunity to prove his worth. He was war chief of his tribe, a great honor. But soon the council of elders would be faced with a dilemma. They must choose the chief’s successor. He knew he was young, but both Black Cloud and Yellow Blanket had told him he was being considered. Red Hawk and Walking Buffalo were, as well.

      “Yes, my chief?”

      “You say you wish to take a wife. Have you chosen a woman?”

      “I have not.” Even as he said this, he realized he should have reflected on why Iron Bear was asking this before he answered. A leader needed to consider his words more carefully.

      “The choice of wife is an important one. She must not only warm your blankets and keep your fires. She must make your home from the best buffalo robes you can provide her and she must be strong to bear your children. Most important, she must act as adviser. For though many pretend that decisions are made by the council of elders, we all know that they do not act without considering the opinions of all and, most especially, their wives.”

      This was true, so why did Running Wolf feel a rising uncertainty at the direction this conversation had taken?

      “My daughter, Spotted Fawn, is young, but she is a good woman, modest and hardworking. And although her mother is gone, she has learned much from my second wife, Laughing Moon. She knows what it means to be the daughter of a chief. Her mother bore me five children, three of them sons. I believe that Spotted Fawn will also bear her husband strong children.”

      Running Wolf glanced toward the door. Two days ago he would have gladly taken the chief’s daughter. Before the raid he firmly believed that one woman was much like another. One might be comely and another a better cook. But all and all, they were just women.

      Now he felt differently.

      An ache gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Why had he ever pulled that woman onto his saddle?

      The chief continued on, failing to notice Running Wolf’s distraction. “I would ask that you consider her for your wife, for I would like to see her wed to a good man before I walk the Ghost Road.”

      “Your daughter is a virtuous woman. Any man among us would be lucky to call her wife.”

      Iron Bear smiled, his withered face now as wrinkled as a dried buffalo berry. “Make it soon, son.”

      Running Wolf nodded and took his leave. What had he just done?

       Chapter Five

      Snow Raven followed the mother of Running Wolf toward her tepee. The warriors had succeeded in their raid, and that meant a feast of celebration and dancing. If the Sioux custom was similar to the Crow, their deeds would be told by one who witnessed and not the one who performed the coup, for to do otherwise was boastful.

      She wiped the blood from her lip and pinched her nose to stem the flow. By the time they had reached the large conical tepee, she had stanched the worst of the bleeding.

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