Dances Naked (11 page)

Red Shirt grinned; he knew the man didn’t understand him
,
but he was fun to watch. Most white men were all the same; this one was different. He’d let him keep his old breechclout and the shirt. He didn’t want to shame him but did want his pants. Red Shirt pointed to the cloth on the ground, offering it to the silly man.

“For me? Really? Now that’s mighty considerate.” Marty picked up the decorated breechclout, very clean he was relieved to see, and nodded, “Thanks!” He bent over and grabbed the leather thong then looked at the men. “Let’s see if I can figure this out…,” he said as he held up the thong with one han
d and the cloth with the other. He smiled and shrugged in resignation at what
was sure
to
be a one-man comedy show.

Marty bent over to the humiliating task. First
,
he lifted his shirt, unavoidably flashing the men with his nakedness
,
and
tied the thong around his waist. He hoped he wasn’t making too much a fool of himself
trying
to figure out how to weave the cloth up between his legs and in and over the leather waistband in the front
then
, Lord help him, up his backside. “Well, let’s see if this feeble old white man can figure out how to cover his ass like an Indian,” Marty joked, making broad gestures as he made a show of his lack of skill in dressing Cherokee-style. It was better to make a
parody and entertain the men tha
n stress about his lack of clothing and loss of dignity.

Marty fought the fabric and leather then realized that
his main problem was the shirt—
it kept getting in the way. “I still want this so don’t anyone take it, uh, please,” he said sincerely
.
He
pul
led his shirt off over his head.
T
he thong still tied around his waist but the butt flap
was
only tucked in under his navel. Marty knew the braves were still laughing at him and now that he had the shirt off, he realized how simple the task should have been. “There!” he crowed in victory as he danced a little two step in a tight circle to show them that he had managed to cover himself adequately, at least as far as he was concerned. “Thank you, thank you very much,” he added with an Elvis Presley impersonation, “I’ll be here all day.”

His voice changed back to his regular light British accent as he asked, “Are you from around here? I mean, I’m lost and need some help getting to the big trees.” Marty was employing his own version of sign language but it didn’t seem to help. “I want to get back to my woman and son,” he said with sadness. He put his arms in front of him and drew a curvy figure in the air
,
then placed his hands on the front of his chest to indicate big breasts
and
mimed cradling a baby. He realized that tears were falling down his cheeks but he didn’t care. He wanted to be back with Bibb and to meet the son he never knew he had. And right now, it didn’t look like his chances to be with them were very good. Nope, they were slim to none.

Nope,
not none. Marty looked up to the sky and put his arms up in prayer. “Lord, would you help these strong men understand that
I need to go home?
I don’t mean them any harm but really could use a bit of food, water
,
and direction. I’d appreciate it; in Jesus name, Amen.”

Red Shirt snorted an order and the younger of the braves retrieved a bag from his horse. The three men sat down in an open circle and motioned for Marty to sit with them. The young man handed each one a modest-sized chunk of jerky
,
then passed around the canteen of water. It appeared that two out of three of his prayer requests
had been
answered. “Just a minute,” Marty said as he rifled through his vest to retrieve his contribution to the meal. “Here.” Marty offered each of the men a cashew nut then took one for himself. “Mmm, good.”

Each of the men sniffed the nut. Red Shirt
,
being the bravest of the braves, ventured a lick of it. “Hmph.” Evidently
,
the salty taste appealed to him because he popped the whole nut in his mouth and chewed away blissfully, grunting to his peers to try theirs.

“I wish I had more to share but I didn’t plan on being gone this long. Then again, I didn’t plan on being without my horse either. You do know that,” he nodded with his forehead to his mare, “
that
is my horse.”

Red Shirt didn’t say anything. He knew what the white man was saying. He didn’t doubt that the horse had been his recently. The man he took i
t from didn’t fit in the saddle—
the stirrups were too low for him. He was
also
mean to her, kicking the mare and racing her in circles just to stir up dust around the woman and child. No, the horse probably belonged to Dances Naked
,
but now she was his.

“You can keep the horse,” Marty offered
,
although he knew they didn’t understand him. “I’m very grateful for the food and drink
,
and the new clothes are nice, too,” he said as he fingered the front of the breechclout. “But what I’d really appreciate is direction. Now
, you see, there are these trees—
they’re very special. You go through them here,” he said as he poked a couple of limb bits into little piles of gravel
.
He
‘walke
d’ with the first two fingers of
his right hand through the tree models, “and then,
poof,
you come out…
” Marty pulled his hand away and brought it out around the other side of him, fluttering his fingers like they were wayward moths.

Red Shirt’s eyes widened. He knew where these trees were. Yes, he’d send Dances Naked in the right direction. He said he wanted to be with his woman and child. If he was willing to go through The Trees to be with them, he’d help him. But he wasn’t going with him. That was where he lost his brother many winters ago. Little Big Man went into them to show how brave he was
,
but he never came out.

Marty saw the momentary look of terror on Red Shirt’s face. He wasn’t sure if the man understood his English or if it was just his sign language
,
but he knew one thing for sure: Red Shirt knew where he wanted to go.

Just as Marty was deciding h
ow he should broach the subject—
he didn’t know an
ything about Cherokee diplomacy—
the horses started neighing and jumping around. Something was frightening them.

“You can have the mare
,
but I want that stallion,” Grant announced menacingly as he strutted into the middle of
the group, brandishing the bone-
handled knife in his left hand
,
a silvery pistol in his right.

All of the men in the breakfast club looked at each other, completely bypassing looks of embarrassment or anger at being caught off guard
,
instead making non-spoken plans to disarm the dishonorable white man. Red Shirt looked at Marty, too. Marty lowered his eyelids halfway, letting his new friend know that he was on their side. He’d help them take down the ma
n who had stolen his horse, hat,
and boots
,
and hit him in the face for no reason at all.

“Where’d you get the gun, Grant?” Marty called out sassily,
meaning to distract
the repeat offending villain from whatever the braves were
doing
.

“My dumb sister had it, if it’s any of your business, and it’s not,” he replied indignantly. “Now, why don’t you be a good little man and bring me the reins of that stallion there,” he ordered Marty.

Marty stood up slowly, taking as much time as he dared. He wasn’t part of the action; he was the diversion. He pulled himself up to his full height
and brushed a few leaves off
the front of his breechclout. He was an older man but still much taller than Grant. ”Little?” Marty asked as he stuck his neck out proudly. ‘
Hurry up, red men. Lord, don’t let him shoot that gun
,
but if he does, may he be a lousy shot!’

“What’s going on here?” Grant asked gruffly. “Why are you with them and not tied up? I didn’t think you were a dumb Indian.”

“Hmph!” Marty snorted, trying to think of a line to use to eat up time. “I didn’t do anything wrong so why should I be tied up? No, these men were quite accommodating. We just did some trading a
nd were finishing our breakfast
when you showed up. Oh,” he added when he saw that one of the braves was ready to disarm Grant, “and they’re not dumb.”

The Young One rushed Grant, startling him, actually bewildering Rachel’s nasty brother so much that he dropped his pistol without being hit. However, he still had a death grip on his knife, his metallic best friend, or at least the favorite part of his non-biological person. Nothing would make him give up his steely appendage.

Or
,
so he thought. The Young One was gone and now Number Two was in his face, glaring at him, fixing his intimidating gaze on a terrified Grant. Without batting an eye, Number Two kneed him in the groin
,
then forearmed him under the chin. He reached up and grabbed the knife as it went flying out of Grant’s hand with the whiplash blow.

Red Shirt grunted and nodded at his men: tie him up. The worthless wad of white man was now lying sideways on the ground, his forehead bent into his knees, blubbering. He shamelessly wailed in pain, his voice high and squealing like a toddler who had just been robbed of his teddy bear. Number Two nudged Grant gruffly, not quite kicking him but definitely putting some force behind the foot. The groundling took the hint: stand up. Grant rolled onto his knees then stumbled upright, groaning in embarrassment as he noticed that he had pissed himself. He sniffed then groaned again. And shit himself, too.

Number Two grabbed Grant’s right hand and wound
a strip of
rawhide around it, making a point to cinch it tightly. Grant pulled his left hand away, tucking it under hi
s chin—
he didn’t want to be tied up. “I’ll be good,” he pled. “You don’t need to tie me up.”

Number Two grunted and nodded to the left hand: ‘give it to me or else’ was loud and clear in the guttural language of the victor.

“No, really—I
promise…” Grant begged.

Twack! Number Two’s fist found Grant’s left jaw w
ith a solid blow.
Blood spurted
out of the right side of his mouth with the impact. The pugilistic attitude adjustment knocked him sideways to the ground and his knees. A humbled Grant, still tethered to the Indian by the thong on his right wrist, stuck out his left hand. He cautiously lifted his head and
,
at the same time
,
moved his tongue around the inside of h
is mouth. His eyes opened wide—
he found it. He spit out the tooth and grumbled, “It was rotten anyway.”

Number Two quickly bound the whiner’s left hand to his right then pushed the stinking, literally, whiner to the ground. Grant let out a
groan as he landed on his butt—
he was sitting in his own excrement. Red Shirt walked up to him and nudged his shoulder with his mocassined foot, letting
his prisoner
know that he was to lie back. Grant obeyed and looked up wide-eyed at the tall Indian. Red Shirt gently but firmly placed his foot on the man’s throat and shook his head in admonishment. He was in command, not him, and he shouldn’t have threatened him or his men
,
or tried to steal his horse. There would be repercussions. Grant sniffed and gulped but didn’t say a word. Even if he had been dumb enough
to try, it wouldn’t have worked:
the foot on his throat had paralyzed his larynx.

“No, they’re not dumb,” reiterated Marty. “They’re actually very clever and I’m proud to claim them as friends. Now, where are your sister and the baby?”

“We’re over here,” called Rachel as she
boldly
walked up to the site of the confrontation. “I told you it was a stupid idea,” she said angrily to her bloody-faced, sniveling brother. “You should have been happy with just the one horse. Serves you right though
,
for not letting us ride, too.”

Red Shirt lifted his head to the man Marty figured was his second in command. At least he wasn’t the youngest one who had acted as a waiter earlier. Number Two came over and took over the throat throttling position and Red Shirt sauntered over to Rachel.

The very young mother stood tall, unafraid on the outside
,
but trembling on the inside. He couldn’t be any worse than her brothers. She let the red man touch the sleeve of her dress and caress the cheek of her son
who
was intrigued with the man with long black hair. Junior reached both arms out to Red Shirt, wanting to be held. The brave looked at Rache
l to see how she felt about it—
not that it wo
uld make any difference to him—
she was a white woman. But
,
she wasn’t like the other ones he had seen up close. They were all frantic at his sight, scared, screaming
,
and with water gushing out of their eyes and nose. No, she was different. Rachel dipped her head giving him tacit permission to hold her son.