Dances Naked (18 page)

“Oh, well,” he commented as he realized that, no matter what, the future was bright. He knew he’d be back to his normal, clearheaded self after consuming a few of the calories that he was toting on his and the mare’s backs. He grabbed her reins and trotted ahead of her, setting a comfortable pace for the two of them. There was too much loaded on her back for him to ride and that was just fine with him. He’d rather jog alongside a food-laden, bareback horse than ride a saddled one with empty bags and belly. Yes, it was a good day and he had done well with his bartering. Red Shirt would be proud of him.

Red Shirt saw Dances Naked running in front of his mare, their two heads bouncing just above the short trees and tall bushes that led away from the white man’s store. ‘Well, at least he didn’t lose my horse,’ he thought. He couldn’t see if the crazy white man had been successful in spending his coins
,
but at least he hadn’t b
een robbed, and could still walk. N
o, he was almost running. Yes, he was still healthy enough to run and wise enough to return to him. H
e never threatened Dances Naked;
he didn’t feel like he had to, but he would have hunted him down and eaten his liver if he had tried to take his horse and leave rather than trade his coins for food like he
had offered. Red Shirt nodded. Y
es, he was still a good judge of character.

Red Shirt rode his stallion to the spot where he would intercept the running white man. He snorted. The funny man would probably get lost trying to find his way back to the
camp if he didn’t have a guide—
he was already veering away from where he should be. Dances Naked had no sense of direction and
,
from what he could gather, wasn’t from this area. He got lost very easily, even for a white man.

“Hey,
there!” Marty called out when he spotted Red Shirt. “I hit the jackpot!” he said breathlessly, quickening his pace to reach the man sooner. He knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth
,
Red Shirt couldn’t possibly know what he was talking about
H
e’d wait until he caught his wind and was closer to explain
though
. Then again, when his friend saw all the booty, no explanation would be necessary.

Red Shirt’s eyes widened in shock—both the horse and the white man were loaded with colorful bags of provisions. His mouth spread wide into an uninhibited smile, his lips parting to show both his teeth and his happiness. There was enough food for his family for months.

“You like?” Marty asked, grinning just as much his friend.

“I like,” Red Shirt replied then slipped off his horse. He reached for the two bags of food Marty was carrying then threw them over his own shoulders. He nodded to Marty: you ride.

“Me?” Marty asked although he knew without a doubt
,
that was what he meant.

Red Shirt grunted:
‘D
on’t make me offer again.
’

“Okay, okay, thank you,” Marty babbled then put his hand on the stallion’s mane and made a valiant attempt at mounting him. “Um, he’s a bit taller than most and I’m used to stirrups and my legs are a bit wobbly…” Marty carped, half seriously, half in jest and totally embarrassed.

Red Shirt sighed and stood next to him, squatted down a little and cupped his hands to give Marty a boost. As it was, it still took two attempts to get the worn out and undernourished old man onto the now skittish stallion’s back. “I got it, I g
ot it,” Marty announced when
settled
with
the leather reins in his hands. “You lead and I’ll follow,” he said as he looked to his friend and nodded to where he thought they were going.

The chief set a double time pace which was easy for the horse and easier still for Marty but had to be taking its toll on the proud red man. After about an hour, Marty noticed his pace slowing. “Eh, hmm; eh, hmm,” Marty vocalized loudly to get Red Shirt’s attention. It worked. Both of them stopped and Marty started right in with his excuse. “I need to, um, make water
,
so can we take just a moment here?” he said
,
and then
slid off the horse without waiting for an answer. He made sure he held onto the reins then turned his back and relieved himself. He took an extra minute
;
presumably,
to
make sure all was taken care of
,
but actually allowing a bit
more recovery time for the two-
legged porter of the provisions. When he turned back around, he saw that Red Shirt had set down his bags and was taking a long drink of water from the canteen. He finished his refreshment then offered it to Marty.

Marty accepted it, took a couple of gulps
,
and
then handed it back. “I got a little something to take care of the sour stomach,” he said then loosed a few stitches in the bag of beans and retrieved the little paper wrapped parcel of peppermint candies. He knew nothing had been said or inferred about bellyaches
,
but the candy he had eaten at
the store had quelled his fire—
maybe his friend was suffering from the same malady. And
,
a little sugar coated calorie cube might help make the last leg of the journey a little easier, too. He would have offered to swap places with Red Shirt but figured that would probably be an insult to his proud companion.

Red Shirt took the white and red rock-shaped piece he was offered. He knew Dances Naked wouldn’t present him with bad food or insult him in any way. The food he had shared with him when they first met, a strange nut, was good. He’d try this, too.

Marty saw the look on Red Shirt’s face, suggesting that he take one, too. “No thanks; I already had one. It’s a peppermint. Don’t bite it,” he mimed crunching down on the candy then shook his head, “just suck on it.” Marty puckered his lips and swished his cheeks around, making an exaggerated gesture to elicit a slight grin from his traveling buddy. Red Shirt sniffed the candy then ventured a quick lick to prepar
e his mouth. The nut was salty—
would
this be, too? Nope—
this tasted like the green plant that grew under the trees near water. Yes, it was good for a sour belly
,
but this food was sweet, too. He plopped the whole piece in his mouth, involuntarily smiling at the sweetness
,
and
then nodded to Marty: get on the horse.

Marty had stopped at this site on purpose. There were boulders littering the landscape and one was sure to be just the right height to use as an equine mounting apparatus. He walked the steed to a likely platform, climbed the rock
,
and brought the horse closer to him. He had to take a little leap but still made it astride the steed without Red Shirt having to act as his footman. Next stop: his new, albeit temporary, home.

Ж

This time Red Shirt was confident, not leery, as he approached the almost-a-village site. He was returning as a victor, not empty handed and with three more mouths to feed. This should shut up Old Woman.

The matriarch exited her little twig and hide cas
tle of prominence to see what her grandson had brought to share. He ha
d embarrassed her last time. H
opefully
,
he wouldn’t do it again. He was her son’s son, tall and intelligent, but too meek and forgiving to be a real man. And
,
he was not a very good hunter
,
either. Their tribe would perish under him if she didn’t intercede. He had convinced his father that he should learn the white man’s tongue. The months he
was away,
learn
ing
the white men’s ways
,
were the ones when he was needed the most, when the red belly sickness came. It would have been better if he had died of the measles and his father had lived. Yes, if his father had lived
,
maybe he could have sired another son, one who was a strong warrior, who listened to his gut and not his heart like her grandson whom
she secretly called, ‘My Shame
.
’

Marty stopped the horse with a stern, “whoa,” and a tug on the reins as soon as he saw they were just outside of their little village. He slipped down and ran to catch up with Red Shirt who had evidently gotten a second or third wind with the excitement of coming home. “Here,” he said as he put the reins in the hand of the man-who-was-probably-chief’s hand. “Let me take the bags. You’re the boss and I’m just the facilitator, I mean,” he stammered trying to figure a way to say in simple words that they needed to be politically correct in their presentation. He retrieved the bag of oats from a perplexed Red Shirt and put his shoulder under it. “You’re the chief, I’m not,” he said simply
,
then turned his unburdened shoulder to his friend, asking him without words to ‘load me up’ with the bag of beans. He’d come into town as a slave, or worker at least, not riding on the man-in-charge’s stallion.

Red Shirt gave a quick chuckle of chagrin and nodded to Dances Naked. H
e was slightly embarrassed that
in his exhilaration to be home with food, lots of food, he had forgotten his position. He already owed this white friend a favor for the food, may
be a trip to The Terrible Trees—
but then again, maybe not. However, now he had also spared him shame in front of his family and most important of all, his grandmother. He nodded once more to Dances Naked and grinned. ‘Yes, you got
yourself a guide to your Trees—
I owe you that,’ he said without words.

It was nice that this man could understand him. He had already used three of the white man’s words with him. His father had told him that when he had used ten of their words to any one man, it wa
s time for him to go. Hopefully,
no, he was sure
,
that did not pertain to a woman. He had already used more than ten words with his wife and that was in only two days. He was going to keep her no matter how many words he said to her
,
but he’d say them in private. She’d learn his tongue faster if he could teach her with shared words. He’d let her speak the English
to their son when no one else c
ould hear. That would help him when he grew to be a man
,
just as it had helped him many times in the last year. But
,
he couldn’t tell anyone about those times. They were secret and not to be shared with anyone.

The six-legged grocery store strode through the micro village, both men
,
and even the horses
,
holding their heads high in pride. Red Shirt knew it would be proper to acknowledge Old Woman first
,
but she had tried to humiliate him in front of his tribe. There were only ten of them left, no, twelve with his new wife and son, but he still should be respected and not ignored. He would have counted Dances Naked as the thirteenth member but he wouldn’t be staying. He
would like to have him remain—
he was dependable, clever
, and made him smile—
but he knew the man needed to be back with his woman and child. Yes, he’d take the food to the loyal members of his tribe first.

The men and the horses passed in front the old crones’ hut without stopping, heading straight to the heart and core of his tribe.

Then he saw it.

Red Shirt’s golden glow of pride exploded into a red rage of anger striped with green lightning bolts of jealousy: Number Two was sitting next to his wife, looking at her and, it appeared
to be
, touching her as only a husband should touch a wife.

Red Shirt dismounted and hit the ground running, ready to tackle his brother-in-law for improper advances toward his wife. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” yelled Marty as he quickly pulled in his shoulders
to drop
his dry goods, unabashedly chasing after his new best friend to stop him before he did something rash. “It’s not what it looks like, I’m sure it’s not!”

Marty literally stood between the two men, his arms held out straight to separate
them, one hand on each man’s shoulder
. “Rachel, button up,” he commanded. “You,” he glared at Red Shirt, “wait to do or say anything until we find out what’s going on here. And you,” he ordered Number Two, “take your son and daughter and sit down over there,” Marty nodded to a neutral corner. He knew there would be less chance of fisticuffs, or anything else, if the man was holding a baby and had his daughter at his elbow.

“Rachel, did Number Two touch you inappropriately or,” Marty saw the confused look on her face and spoke as if to a six-year-old, “Did he touch you in a way that made you feel bad.”

“No, he touched his son’s head when I was nursing him. He mumbled some words but I don’t know what he was saying. But
,
he didn’t touch me at all. I think he was just saying
, ‘Thank you
.
’
At least I think that’s what he was trying to say.” Rachel finished her explanation with a sad, scared
,
and repentant
look to Red Shirt that said, ‘N
othing was going on, I promise. I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression.’