Chapter 1

     Pacing Wolf shifted restlessly atop a small rise, just beyond range of the dozing sentinel’s arrows.  Lying in the tall, coarse grass beneath the canopy of an ancient crabapple tree, he took in the size and number of his enemies’ lodges.  He was eager to exact his vengeance.  The grass felt prickly and cold, even through his deerskin shirt; and his breath, swirling up as he warmed his fingers, clung damply to his high cheekbones.  Wiping them irritably, he spied a pale wisp drifting aloft through a smoke-hole, and the edges of his mouth tilted upward.  He would not need to wait much longer—hidden within a thick lodge-cover, a woman was coaxing her dying embers to flame.  Her dwelling awoke like a living thing, glowing welcomingly against the chilly night sky. 

The earth had been much like her this year:  stirring early to awaken all that depended on her care.  Her unseasonable warmth had helped him cover twice the ground he could have in snow and kept the moccasin impressions he followed fresh.  All the while he had tracked them along the riverbank, he had thought their wearer’s carelessness odd; and when they met up with hoof prints from a small war party, also undisguised, their trail led straight to this village. 

He is overconfident, Pacing Wolf concluded, or he means to incite us.  

The lodges looked flat, like black peaked mountains painted across an unbleached buffalo hide, but as the first shoots of light streaked the horizon with purple they began to take their rounded shape.  A nearby bird greeted the morning, and a sniffing dog poked its nose around the cold ashes of yesterday’s cook-fire.  Mothers would soon search their larders, and their daughters would scavenge firewood below trees that sprang, like the one that hid him, from the bottom of the hill. 

Before completing the thought, Pacing Wolf received his reward.  Like young geese impatient for a morning swim, the daughters streamed out from their safe nests, their dark bobbing heads disproportionately small above bulky fur robes.  As the first crossed the meadow, he suspected she was the village beauty.  The scant light obscured her features but could not hide her proud bearing.  She commenced her chore with alacrity, grabbing up the most useful branches and bundling them on her back.  He had no doubt she did likewise with the choicest ganders:  securing their offers before others gained a glance.  His dead woman had been like her—arousing the ardor of all who confused soft, well-placed flesh with a tender heart. 

I will snatch this haughty one, he sneered, and enjoy humbling her pride.    

As a light peal of laughter interrupted his thoughts, he shifted to a thinner spot beneath the canopy.  By a lodge on the village-edge, a newly lit cook-fire cast its glow on a latecomer.  His glance passed over her quickly:  he could not believe such a pleasant sound had arisen from the shriveled throat of a silver-haired grandmother.  However, as he followed her lively gestures, he found its source: an attentive companion stepped closer to the flames.  Her long slender neck brought a young doe to mind; and, as she laughed at the old woman’s tale, affection danced in her eyes.  Her graceful form stirred his senses, but as he watched her cross the meadow to the trees, he began doubting her intelligence.  She wove in and out too slowly, brushing pink blossoms from the best branches and then passing them over for thinner, shorter twigs.  However, her frequent backward glances soon made her purpose clear.

The old one’s sight is dim—the doe leaves her the better kindling.  I will steal her instead—she will bring me much pleasure.  

Looking toward the lodges, he knew he must hurry—taller, more menacing shadows had begun stirring within their large, softly illumined hides—but as he plotted a way to lure her from the others, his gut twisted uncomfortably.  Horror was sure to fill her eyes.  Turning to consider the haughty goose again, her change of posture led his gaze across the field.  Outlined by the same cook-fire were three warriors, staring hard in his direction.    

Pacing Wolf unsheathed his knife and inched back under the thickly budding branches; but as they sauntered toward the crabapples, the gaggle—evidently their object—captivated their interest. 

Glancing back toward the haughty goose, he saw her tilt her chin away—as if she were above the warriors’ notice—but her hips declared otherwise.  He followed their generous sway until a sudden nearby movement diverted his attention.  The silver-headed storyteller had stumbled over the roots of his tree and rocked back and forth amidst her scattered sticks.  Tossing down her bundle, the young doe rushed to her side—within a good, strong leap from his hiding place.  Her face, awash with tenderness, decided his course.  She looked markedly younger than he had first supposed; and while he admired the self-possession that leant her several summers, he resolved to leave her as she was. 

While she felt the old one’s swelling ankle, the sillier geese fluttered after every pliable and insignificant twig that brought them across the ganders’ paths.  The most youthful of the warriors acted like a woman sowing kernels:  tossing smiles randomly in hope a few might land on fertile ground.  His stockier friend showed more discrimination.  He aimed only for the haughty goose, but she never looked in his direction.  She had fixed her eyes on the third, as tall and handsome as any warrior of Pacing Wolf’s own people, and offered him an inviting smile.  As he glanced her way, his lips twisted smugly; but he swaggered directly to the young doe and towered over her, blocking the faint light.  When she refused to look up and acknowledge him, he gouged her sharply with his toe.

Pacing Wolf hardened his mouth into a rigid line when he saw her wince.  What right does he have to her?  He would crush her like a buffalo trampling flowers in the grass!  Let him take the haughty one—her affections will prove shallow—stingily bestowed and paid for unendingly.

As he waited for her reaction, the corners of his lips softened.  As though bumped by a fly, she continued her examination, hoisted the woman to her feet, and the two hobbled toward the lodges.  The tall warrior glowered after her sullenly; but she never cast him the slightest glance. 

The two other warriors lay back against the hillside, unaware of the enemy hidden in the tree above them; and, while they evaluated the lingering geese, Pacing Wolf inspected their regalia.  He would not take a life without just cause, but knowing their strengths would provide him an edge if they discovered his presence.  The youngest wore nothing that denoted a single act of bravery:  he was of no consequence.  Pacing Wolf would make sport by touching him lightly with his bare hand.  The stocky warrior’s crown boasted several feathers, each angled to proclaim a different feat of valor; Pacing Wolf decided to tap him with his coup-stick.  Gaining an unacknowledged victory over the doe’s tall suitor, however, was not enough:  in addition to feathers, his leggings boasted red painted stripes—awarded only for drawing enemy blood. 

I will cut the quiver from his back.

While perusing its feathered contents, an excited shock rippled through him.  The suitor’s arrows looked like the one Pacing Wolf had broken from his dead woman’s throat.  He took its jagged, blood soaked shaft from his belt and methodically turned it over.  From the time he could run, his uncles had taught him the subtle differences between each tribe’s arrows: this one was yellow on one side and blue on the other.  It also bore a mark that distinguished it from his clansmen’s so his woman would know which buffalos were hers to skin.  If the doe’s tall suitor wished to hide his identity, he would have used a knife.

As the youngest man watched the haughty goose retreat, he sighed, “I would give many horses to have that one warm my robes at night.”

“You’re a fool,” scoffed his tall companion.  “Wait until the Allies assemble this summer.  I will pull her out from the Dance of Untouched Women, and her father will pay you to take her.”

 Offended, the youngest flung back, “You hunger after Light Bird like a vulture for a wolf pack’s scraps.  Preying Eagle will never yield her unless you dip in the water of their book.”

Light Bird.  Pacing Wolf rolled her name over in his mind.  It does not suit her—she does not chirp and flit about.  The rest of the young man’s meaning eluded him.  Their peoples’ languages had grown from a common root, but each had altered words over time; and as his thoughts changed from sport to vengeance, he was too occupied to consider it for long.  He would kill the shorter warriors with arrows—he did so only out of necessity—but he gripped his axe convulsively, eager to feel it split her suitor’s chest. 

“When the sun reaches the lower branches, we leave for our own village and take Light Bird with us.”

“Her father and uncles are too strong for us,” the stocky warrior scowled, “and what of her brothers?” 

Rising to his feet, the tall suitor announced:  “I go now to warn Old Many Feathers that the Raven-Enemy head this way.  While they make their war council, I will slip away and get her.  Ready the horses and bring them here.”

“Don’t discount her women-folk,” cautioned his stocky cousin.  “They will beset you like a flock of pecking blue jays.”

“A lame, half-sighted old woman can offer small resistance.”  

“Turn aside,” pleaded the youngest.  “Would you break the alliance between our bands?”

The tall suitor only set his handsome jaw in reply, but his stocky cousin grimly shook his head.  “Walks-Behind-Them is right.  This band is large and the Creator favors them.”

“Pah!” spat the suitor.  “The Creator does not live in a book.  The Raven-Enemy possess too many lodges to count.  When the sun next arises, they will turn this village to ash and smoke.”

“And if they do not?” asked the stocky one, getting up on his feet.

“Preying Eagle will accept my horses or I will pull his daughter also from the line of untouched dancers and proclaim her impure before the assembly.”

 “Take the other, “ suggested Walks-Behind-Them, standing also.   “Her face is more pleasing and she will come with you gladly.”

 “You know nothing!  Her mother casts daughters like that pony you ride.  Light Bird’s women-folk yield sons— many, and all hearty.  And,” her suitor smirked, “I am told they revere their husbands like they do their white man’s god.”

“Preying Eagle will not rest until he deals with you justly,” warned his thickset cousin, starting back to the village.

 “You heard their reading last night:  If someone steals a shirt, they are to give him their buffalo robe also.  Too bad she lacks a sister!”

“If you want her,” proposed the youngest as he trailed behind them, “why not dunk in the water as her father requires?”

Turning on him angrily, the tall suitor snarled, “I am Wild Dog—I do my own bidding!  These three summers I have waited like a tame whelp near her cook-pot.  I will wait no more!”

“Wild Dog.”  The sounds slid distastefully off Pacing Wolf’s tongue as he allowed the three to stride away.  They have named you well.  My axe craves justice, but I will be patient—and bait my trap with a doe’s tender flesh. 

Stowing his weapons, he scanned the illumined dwellings and found two, side-by-side, that lacked morning fires.  He studied them closely to determine which, if either, held his prey.  Once he’d slit a lodge cover, he couldn’t turn back—he would have to snatch or kill whatever woman he found inside.  He hated to harm the storyteller, not only because he respected the aged, but also because he would need to do so before the graceful doe’s eyes.  Brushing the thought from his mind, he noticed a slender, dress-clad form slip into the shadowy meadow.

As she peered cautiously at the spot just vacated by her tribesmen, his lips curled into a satisfied grin.  He knew her bearing instantly.  My spirit guide hands me justice!  Reaching into his pouch, he hung a small offering among the pale blossoms and crept down the hill into the crabapple’s dense shadow. 

Light Bird darted toward her abandoned bundle, but something, she could not say what, brought her to an abrupt stop.  She stood perfectly still, as if sniffing the breeze for a predator’s scent.  Deciding her imagination played tricks, she hurried on ahead—without firewood neither she nor her mother could cook their early meal.  She did not know where her two older brothers had gone, perhaps to the council along with her father; but the two younger ones, her responsibility while her mother nursed her latest, were already complaining of hunger.  Deciding to leave her grandmother’s firewood for later, she flung her bundle over her shoulder; but its weight was so light that she reconsidered.  Divided between two households, the thin short twigs would burn too quickly. 

Inwardly, Pacing Wolf trotted back and forth like the restless animal whose name he possessed.  The beat of his heart increased with each step that brought her nearer, urging him to rush out and grab her; but he drank in the cold air slowly and kept every muscle conformed to the lines of the thick gray trunk. 

Laying down her bundle, Light Bird slipped to her hands and knees and gathered her grandmother’s scattered sticks, but as she drew closer to the tree, the same odd feeling that disturbed her in mid-meadow pulled her to a halt.  She froze, her eyes darting this way and that while she listened to the breeze rustle branches overhead.  Suddenly, a dark shadow knocked her to the ground with such force she couldn’t scream.  Hard-muscled arms pinned hers against her ribs; and before she could regain her breath, they had trapped her inside her own buffalo hide.  Twisting and turning frantically, she tried to squirm out of its dark folds, but her assailant hoisted her off the ground, slung her over his shoulder and bounded effortlessly up the hill. 

Coming to her senses she demanded, “Pretty Face, put me down!”  Three years her senior, her brother had abducted her so often that her boredom usually spoiled his fun, but this morning was different.  Not only did she need to make her family’s early meal; but, since her newest little brother occupied much of her mother’s time, she also needed to complete their grandmother’s chores.  With a twisted ankle, Two Doves could do little but weave or mend. 

Besides this, Pretty Face had grown considerably rougher over the past winter.  As he tossed her across his mount, she imagined their cousins’ boisterous laughter when he finally set her free; and, fueled by fresh ire, she attempted to wriggle off, but a large hand firmly clamped her rump.  She stopped squirming instantly.

The robe is thick, she reasoned.  He cannot know where he touches; but as she felt the hand slide down her leg, the hair on her nape stood up.

A wide grin split Pacing Wolf’s face as he roped her ankles and wrists beneath his sorrel’s belly.  She had fought harder and longer than he had expected, heightening his excitement and increasing his admiration; he was not about to lose her.  Leaping back down the hillock, he tied Wild Dog’s bloodstained shaft to his own distinctly marked arrow and fastened both to the doe’s full bundle.  Her clansmen could not miss his implication:  he had chosen her intentionally and the arrows told them why.  Bounding back over the rise, he leaped atop his mount and sped toward the great muddy river; and only forest creatures lifted their heads when they heard her muffled cries.

Rescue me, Lord, from the evildoers; protect me from the violent, who devise evil plans in their hearts and stir up wars every day.

Psalm 140:1-2

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