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hatred that burned in her eyes was all-consuming. She screamed in triumph as the knife sank up to the hilt in my chest.
    My first reaction was a primal one—without thinking, I swiped at her as she struggled to pull the blade free for a second strike, my talons sinking into the soft flesh of her jugular. Flood Moon clutched her throat, a rattling gasp coming from her lips. I had sliced open her windpipe.
    Struggling to my feet, I tugged at the knife wedged in my ribs. I fully expected to die, but to my surprise, after an initial jet of blood, my wound sealed itself. The same could not be said for Flood Moon, who lay writhing on the ground at my feet, blood spurting from between her fingers with every beat of her heart.
    I felt as if I had awoken from a bad dream only to find myself trapped within a nightmare. My head no longer ached, and I was empty of the anger that had driven me to such a horrible end. I looked around me as if in a daze. When I saw the mutilated body of Small Bear, I cried out in horror. Even as I closed my eyes to what I had done, my memory replayed how I had brutally violated the only woman I had ever loved. When I opened them again, I saw that Flood Moon, in her last moments, had crawled over to Small Bear and collapsed atop his body.
    I buried them there, side by side, on the lone prairie. I wept as I dug their common grave with the knife Flood Moon had planted in my heart, mourning as much for myself as for my victims, for I could never return to my tribe after what I had done.
    I grew physically ill at the thought of how Eight Clouds Rising, Medicine Dog, Quanah, Peta Nocona and the others would react once they learned of my crimes. Flood Moon and Small Bear had wounded my pride, but the punishment I had meted out to them was far beyond all measure, even by Comanche standards. And, to make matters worse, I had compounded my sin by breaking the tribal taboo against cannibalism.
    I was ashamed and frightened by what I had done. I had lost control of my baser nature and allowed it to revel in the pain of others. I felt sick to my soul. I decided I needed to know more about my strange powers and the beast inside me, least I lose control again and harm someone else dear to me. There was only one way I could learn more about myself. I decided it was finally time for me to go into the White world.

Chapter Three
    My decision to abandon the way of the Comanche was not an easy one. Even though, technically, I was one of their number, I had no reason to love or trust Whites. First of all, it was Whites who killed my natural family. I’d learned that before I knew how to walk, since Eight Clouds made a point of telling me, early on, the story of how I came to be his son. Secondly, as a member of the Wasp Riders, I had ample occasion to see how treacherous Whites could be. They had broken numerous treaties and waged war against the Comanche in a cowardly fashion for years. And third, it was the Whites who were responsible for the epidemics of cholera, diphtheria, influenza, measles, smallpox and syphilis that spread through the tribe like brushfire, claiming brave, elder, squaw and papoose alike.
    The Whites seemed stricken with a craziness the Comanche—and all other Indians—were at a loss to comprehend. Their buffalo hunters killed more than they could possibly eat in a lifetime. Their farmers wrapped the land in barbed wire and claimed the dirt below and the sky above as their property. Still, for madmen, they were privy to immense power. The iron horses and the buffalo guns that could kill from a mile away were truly impressive. So, was it not possible they might possess knowledge as to how I might better control my wolf-self?
    I knew better than to ride up to the nearest settlement and expect to be welcomed with open arms. What with my long dark hair and sun-browned skin, I looked far more Indian than White. I was likely to catch a bullet between the eyes before I had a chance to dismount.