Chapter 8

JACK DROPPED HIS arrows on the ground and rolled his shoulder again. No hindrance of movement. He moved to set up his targets when he felt eyes boring into his back. Dropping his hands to his hips, he sighed. Just where had the bastard been all this time?

Jack turned around and scanned the property tree line slowly. There—he saw the tell-tale shadow, and a moment later, heard the bird’s call. He had a few things to say to his silent companion.

Instead of crossing the yard, Jack turned and entered the woods at the point closest to him, then moved around to the place the call originated. Waiting there silent as the trees was Running Bull, his best friend, blood brother, and son of the tribe chief.

Running Bull smiled. He stood there in the morning sun with his dark hair, dark skin, hard, proud features wearing buck-skin breeches, boots, a shirt, a vest, and buffalo fur against the morning chill. Jack had left his own fur inside the house, choos-ing to wear a borrowed long frock coat instead.

“It is good to see you alive, White Bear,” Running Bull said in their Shawnee language.

“You too,” Jack said, then charged the brave and punched him square in the jaw. The Indian went down with a grunt, stunned, and rubbed his chin.

“And what was that for?”

“Letting me get beaten up by four highway thugs in the forest,” Jack said, shaking his hand. Running Bull had a hard head. “Where were you?”
The Indian pushed to his feet. “I arrived after that hap-pened. I was just in time to see your woman haul your carcass up onto your horse. You’re the early bird that went hunting before I woke up.”

“She is not my woman,” Jack grunted, picking up a long stick and twirling it around, testing his shoulder’s performance.

“No?” Running Bull asked. “I assumed she was the one from the farmhouse the other night. What was that one’s name, or did you not think to ask?” Jack shrugged and tossed the stick. “It is an interesting life you live in this world, White Bear, drinking and whoring.”

“Are you only going to lecture?” Jack demanded.

“I am here to learn,” Running Bull said. “I asked that it be me who travels with you and learns from you, so I could give you your space to do things as you would. I just did not think it would frequently include standing outside in the cold night listening to you grunt over a woman.”

“You could always find something else to do,” Jack said, waving his hand. “I do not require an escort.”

“You don’t,” Running Bull agreed. “But how will I learn if I am not with you? You will not always remain with us, and I would learn what I can. Someone will need to take your place. Someone will need to know the white ways.”

Jack ran a hand down his face. It was an endless argument now—his place with the tribe— which world he would live in.

“You will need to choose one day, White Bear,” Running Bull said softly. “We have always known this, you and I. You cannot continue to live in two worlds.”

“And you think I should pick the white world?”

“I think you should pick the world that makes you most happy—the world that has the most to offer you. You will always be welcome in my tribe, you know that. But could you always be happy there?”

“I am not ready to leave this place yet,” Jack said in lieu of a response, looking back in the direction of the house. “There are answers here I must find first.”

“I will keep my distance,” Running Bull nodded, “and be ready to move when you are.”