"This made Coyote's brother angry. 'Let us build a fire and throw the frog into it so he doesn't run away,' he said. So Old Man Coyote gathered some wood for a fire.
"Now the frog was also a clever young fellow and before Old Man Coyote or his brother could throw him into the flames, the frog hopped toward the fire as if that was where he wanted to go. Confused by the frog's odd behavior, Old Man Coyote and his brother stared at each other. Then Old Man Coyote said, 'Maybe this one belongs to the fire clan. If so, he will hide in the fire and it will not hurt him.'
"'Let us put him in the river then,' said Old Man Coyote's brother. 'We will drown him and then we will cook him and eat him.'
"So Old Man Coyote dropped the frog into the river and the frog swam away, leaving Old Man Coyote and his brother still hungry but much wiser."
When the story was over, Santiago thanked the chief for his hospitality.
Twenty minutes later, Santiago and Regan rode out of the village. The chief had gifted each of them with a horse. Regan's was a lovely chestnut mare with one white stocking.
"I didn't know the Indians lived like that," Regan remarked when the village lay behind them.
"Some do," Santiago replied, "though only a handful live in the old way all year long. Most return to their homes in the city when winter sets in."
"They seemed very… fierce," she said, thinking of the three who had found her. "At least at first."
Santiago grunted softly. Many of the Lakota had gone back to living in the old way, some full time, some only during the summer. They hunted the deer and the buffalo. They performed the Sun Dance ceremony. They lived in hide lodges. The women tanned hides and gathered wild fruits and vegetables, the old men told the ancient stories. Fathers and grandfathers taught their sons to follow the path of a warrior, to value generosity and bravery, to defend those who were helpless, and to provide for those who could not provide for themselves.
Thinking back to his own days among the Apache, Santiago had to admit that it was a good way to live.
The breeze shifted, carrying Regan's scent to his nostrils. She smelled of perspiration and the meal she had just eaten. Fainter, but just as easily identified were the lingering scents of her shampoo and the soap she used to wash her clothes. The warm, heady fragrance of the woman herself called to him, as did the siren call of her life's blood.
He slid a glance in her direction. His fangs pricked his tongue as his gaze caressed her neck. While it was true that he didn't have to feed every night, that didn't mean he was immune to the scent of prey, especially when it was wrapped up in a package as tempting and beguiling as that of the woman riding beside him.
"Joaquin, is something wrong?"
He dragged his gaze from her throat. "No, my lovely one."
She didn't miss the taut line of his shoulders, the glow in his eyes. She wondered just how much control he really had over his passions. All of them.
After a few hours, she was no longer worrying about Santiago's passions. She had never been on a horse before and while she rather enjoyed the sensation of riding, she ached in places she'd never known she had.
They made a brief stop at their old campsite to gather her handbag and their sleeping bags and supplies, and then they were riding through the darkness again, climbing steadily upward.
Regan looked up sharply when the melancholy howl of a wolf rose on a vagrant breeze. A chill went down her spine as the cry was picked up by another wolf and then another. Gazing into the darkness, she had an almost overwhelming urge to peel off her clothes and run wild through the night, to lift her face to the heavens and howl along with the wolves.
Her aches forgotten, she glanced up at the sky. A shiver coursed through her body when she saw the moon. It rode high in the night sky, a bright white sphere that was almost full.
Santiago glanced from Regan to the moon and back again. He could feel the tension radiating off her, sense her uneasiness, her fear. He didn't have to be a wise man to know what was troubling her. The moon was almost full. But there was nothing to worry about. They had almost reached their destination.
The cave was located near the crest of a mountain top. A gray horse grazed near the entrance. It looked up, ears twitching at their approach.
Santiago paused, his senses testing the wind and the surrounding area. The smell of violent death hung heavy in the air.
Dismounting, he handed his horse's reins to Regan. "Wait here."
"What's wrong?"
He shook his head. "Wait here," he repeated, and stepped into the cave. He felt a shimmer of preternatural power as he crossed over the threshold of the cavern.
The inside was as black as night but he was able to see clearly, even in the dark. A number of boxes and sacks lined the walls. The floor of the cave was covered with buffalo robes. A fire pit filled with cold ashes occupied the center. A raised altar made in the old way was located behind the pit. A bow, a quiver of arrows, and a rifle rested on a narrow shelf that was cut into the cave wall. A brown leather recliner, looking ridiculously out of place, was the only piece of furniture in evidence.
Santiago moved deeper into the cave. Here, he found a rough-hewn wooden table, a bowl made of birch bark, an eagle feather, a pipe, and several clay jars filled with herbs.
The scent of blood and death was stronger here. There were signs of a scuffle in the dirt, the marks of a body dragging itself deeper into the cave, and the tracks of a wolf following.
Santiago followed the trail. The ceiling grew lower, the passageway narrower as it gradually curved to the left to form a small chamber that ended a few feet further on.
It was here that he found the bodies. The shaman lay on the floor inside a circle that appeared to be made of pure silver. A knife, the blade of which was also made of silver, protruded from the heart of the second body. Santiago knew, from the smell that lingered on the second corpse, that he had been a werewolf.
Muttering an oath, Santiago knelt beside the old shaman. There were numerous bite marks on his face, neck, chest, arms, and hands. As near as he could tell from the evidence at hand, the old man had been attacked by the werewolf, then had dragged himself into the back of the cave and crawled inside his sacred circle for protection.
Santiago examined the bite marks on the medicine man's body, but it wasn't the bites that had killed him. In and of themselves, none of them would have been fatal. Instead, the old man had slowly bled to death, either too frightened or too weak to leave the circle and tend his own wounds. Rocking back on his heels, Santiago stared at the old Indian. Why would anyone want to kill the reclusive medicine man? And how was he going to tell Regan that the old man was dead, and that the cure, if indeed one had existed, had died with him?