Running Wolf. Jenna Kernan

his mother held a simmering hatred for all things Crow.

      “I see you bring a captive,” said Ebbing Water. “Who took her?”

      “I did.”

      She did not hide her shock. “You?”

      “She is in your care until Iron Bear decides what to do with her.”

      She smiled. “I know what to do with her.” Ebbing Water drew out her skinning knife. Running Wolf was out of the saddle and standing in front of his mother before she had time to turn.

      “I do not want her scarred.”

      She lifted her brows. “She is an enemy.”

      “No.”

      Ebbing Water studied her son for a long moment. He tried not to shift or fidget under her scrutiny. Did she recognize that he found this captive beautiful...fascinating? Mothers could tell such things with just a look. His mother made a noise in her throat and then turned toward Snow Raven.

      Running Wolf had to force himself not to follow. What came next was for the women. The men would only bear witness.

      Ebbing Water shouted louder than the other women and called the men to halt the horses. She walked to Snow Raven and quickly sliced the cord that tied her to the saddle. Running Wolf knew how stiff and sore his captive must be. Unlike his men, she had not been allowed off her horse since he’d tied her there late last night.

      So when Ebbing Water dragged Snow Raven to the ground, his captive lost her balance and went down. That was all it took for the wolves to close in. The women circled her as the men led the string of horses away.

      He heard the curses and saw them spitting on his captive. He watched the vicious kicks and hoped Snow Raven was wise enough to roll into a ball and protect her head. Some women brought sticks to beat this Crow woman while others used their fists.

      They tore at her war shirt and ripped the medicine wheel from her hair. They peeled her from her leggings and dragged off her shirt and tore off her moccasins. He could see her seated, knees to chest, as the insults continued and the blows grew wilder.

      He did not mean to act.

      Even as he called out he told himself to be silent. But still he shouted his mother’s name. She looked to him and he shook his head.

      His mother stepped between the captive and the hive of women buzzing and striking like hornets. She called a halt and shooed them off. Gradually they left Snow Raven, dressed only in her loincloth, sitting in the dirt. The fur that wrapped her hair had been ripped away with the strands of shells and her face was bloody and bruised. They had taken everything of value. But she was alive.

      He watched as she rose, coming to stand with her bare feet planted and her chin up. Her lip was bleeding. So was her nose. Her hair, once so beautiful and wild, was now a mass of snarls and tangles. Her body, which he had so longed to see, gave him physical pain to witness. Her breasts showed scratches and welts. Purple bruises began to show on her shoulder and thighs.

      Yet still she stood as if she was war chief.

      It made him feel small and angry. Why had she returned for her grandmother? Why couldn’t she have run? Then, he would not have this trouble or these confusing feelings.

      Ebbing Water grasped Snow Raven’s bound hands and tugged her toward their lodge. His captive walked on slim feet, now covered with dust and mud. Her legs were long and smooth and muscular. Running Wolf watched until they were out of sight. Only then did his thoughts return to some semblance of normalcy.

      He saw that the horses were watered and then oversaw their hobbling so the new arrivals could graze. They staked the stallions, for they did not want the newcomers fighting with the established leader. That would come in time, for each herd could have only one leader, the strongest. So was the way of the world. Running Wolf must be the strongest if he were to serve his people.

      The women had killed a village dog in preparation for the feast to celebrate their return, and he and the other warriors went to the river to bathe away the taint of the enemy. Afterward they went to the council lodge.

      The open door of the chief’s lodge was an indication that they were expected. Red Hawk called a greeting and their chief, Iron Bear, replied, welcoming them. The illness that wasted Iron Bear’s flesh now resonated in his voice, which was so changed, Running Wolf nearly did not recognize it.

      When Running Wolf entered, Red Hawk had already taken the place beside Black Cloud, the last in the semicircle of the council of elders and the closest place available to their chief. The elders were all great warriors who now served to help lead their people and no longer went on raids. Still, Running Wolf would not care to fight any of them, for despite their age, they were strong. They formed a half circle, and the returning warriors completed the circle.

      Iron Bear greeted each man by name. Their chief was seated by a low fire, though the month of the ripening moon was mild and the days warm and bright. This was the first time that their leader had not come to greet them, and now he huddled beneath a buffalo robe like the old man he had rapidly become.

      Iron Bear had once been fierce and feared by all his enemies. Now he was unsteady on his feet and his color was bad. Even his eyes were turning an unnatural yellow. Still, he led their tribe with wisdom. But all knew he would not lead for long. A new leader must soon be chosen.

      Across from the old chief sat Turtle Rattler, the shaman of their people. Turtle Rattler was much older than Iron Bear but looked youthful by comparison. True, his face was deeply lined and his hair streaked with gray, but his color was a good natural russet. He had ceased his chanting upon their arrival. He wore a medicine shirt that sported two vertical bands of porcupine quills. The adornments had been carefully dyed in green, brown and white before being flattened, soaked and meticulously sewn by his long-time captive into a skillful pattern.

      Turtle Rattler had worked very hard to restore the chief to health but confided to Running Wolf that at night the chief’s spirit already ventured onto the Ghost Road. It would not be long, he said, for the chief’s water smelled sweet and he had no appetite. He seemed to be shriveling up before them like a bit of drying buffalo meat in the sun.

      All were seated—the elders across from the entrance and the youngest warriors closest to the opening as was proper. The buffalo skin held the heat and the air was stifling. Many of the warriors began to sweat in their war shirts, yet their chief continued to shiver in the warm air.

      The coyote staff was passed to Running Wolf. As war chief it was his honor to speak first, and only he would speak until he passed the elaborately beaded staff that held the skull of the clever trickster, coyote. Running Wolf briefly relayed their victory and the number of horses they had taken. He spoke of the brave deeds of his men and the clever theft of livestock, giving credit to Weasel. He considered mentioning Red Hawk’s defiance of his orders to take no captives, but he decided this would only bring more animosity between them.

      He passed the coyote staff to Big Thunder, who had no such qualms. He relayed what he had seen.

      Red Hawk shifted in his place and his expression became stormier. It was obvious that he could not wait for his turn with the talking stick. But as the stick had begun with Running Wolf, he had to wait and wait. He would, however, get the last word. Since it was so hot, many of the men chose to simply pass the staff along. At last Red Hawk gripped the talking stick.

      “This woman dresses like a man. She rides like a man and carries weapons like a man. She is unnatural—a witch. She should be killed as quickly as possible.”

      “Who captured this Crow woman who fights like a man?” asked Iron Bear.

      All eyes turned to Running Wolf.

      “Ah, our new war chief. That is well.”

      The chief turned to Running Wolf. “Do you think this woman is a witch?”

      Running Wolf did not need the stick, for when asked a question it was only polite to answer. “She could not escape her bonds. She could not