Proud Wolf's Woman by Karen Kay Read Free Book Online

kuyo!”
    Neeheeowee heard the harsh carping of a woman’s voice and turned away, not interested. He had learned long ago to keep his own counsel when in camp, even when it appeared one should intervene. No one appreciated an interloper. Not even Neeheeowee.
    “A-doguonko do-peya kuyo!”
    He wasn’t sure what made him turn toward the sound. Something. He didn’t really care what occurred there. In truth, he shouldn’t have stopped; he should have gone on.
    But he didn’t. As though fate suddenly intervened, he turned.
    “A-doguonko do-peya kuyo!”
    He didn’t know what he’d expected to see. Certainly all looked normal.
    Nothing unusual there: Just a bad-tempered Kiowa wife harping at…what? Who? A sister? Not possible. Indian women treated their sisters with more respect.
    Who, then?
    A captive?
    Haahe. Yes, it must be.
    Neeheeowee shrugged, his long hair responding to the movement, the black strands of it falling back, over his shoulders. It was nothing to him how a Kiowa wife treated her captive. And though Neeheeowee rebelled at the idea of captivity or slavery, which went against the morality of his own tribe, he would do nothing here. The Kiowa tribes and the Cheyenne had only last year settled their differences. And with the peace between the tribes so new, Neeheeowee knew he would do nothing to break that truce, certainly not over something as insignificant as an inquiry about a captive.
    Why didn’t he turn away, then? He should have.
    But he didn’t.
    He looked, trying to translate the Kiowa woman’s words to himself: Idler? Coward? Something about an idler here at home?
    He stared at the slave. Why did she appear familiar?
    He glanced at her more closely. She was white, he could see that in her hair color, in the long, dark brown curls that could not be tamed, despite weather, wind, and uncleanliness. White? That should not make her familiar, and yet…
    He knew few white people, keeping away from them instinctively. But there were a handful he had met once, long ago at a fort a little farther north and east from this place. A few men, a few women; one he had…
    Neeheeowee narrowed his eyes and stared.
    Hova’ahane. No. It could not be.
    He studied the captive; her clothes were of white origin, though so dirty and tattered he could not make out their color. The woman sat on the ground next to the Kiowa lodge, her knees to the side, her head down. His glance roved over her, from the torn dress she wore to the very tips of her feet, the bottom flesh there red where the soles of her shoes had torn. Both the white man’s mo’keha, shoes, and the woman, herself, were caked in dirt and mud.
    Eaaa! Why did he look? Unable to help himself, his glance roamed back to the woman’s face, hidden from him by the curtain of her hair, hair that gleamed dark, with reddish highlights only where a deterrent ray of sun struck it.
    He had once known someone with that color of hair, someone…
    He thrust his chin forward and turned his back. It was nothing to do with him.
    “A-doguonko do-peya kuyo!”
    He tried to translate the Kiowa words again; an idler here at home?
    He stopped.
    He didn’t want to, he didn’t intend it, but it happened anyway: He veered about.
    The Kiowa woman grabbed a stick, hitting the captive, once, twice, again and again. But the slave did nothing; no flinch, no reaction, not even a look at her master.
    Was the captive brave? Or was she simply degraded, her spirit broken?
    The Kiowa woman raised her arm again and an anger coursed through Neeheeowee that he could little explain. He should do nothing—it had nothing to do with him. Again, Neeheeowee spun back around to go.
    But not fast enough.
    Suddenly the white slave girl screamed, jumping up and running as far as the noose around her neck would allow, behind the Kiowa lodge, and Neeheeowee, watching, stood still, his legs, his whole body suddenly wooden. A hundred thoughts might have gone through his mind—a similar number of mental