Dances With Wolves (22 page)

In perfect Comanche he said, “I’m Dances With Wolves.”

Then he turned away from the fire and led Cisco down to the river for a long drink.

one

Ten Bears’s first council was inconclusive, but the day after Lieutenant Dunbar’s return another meeting was held, and this time a solid compromise was reached.

Instead of leaving immediately, as the young men had wanted, the war party against the Pawnee would take a week to make necessary preparations. It was also decided that experienced warriors would be included.

Wind In His Hair would lead and Kicking Bird would go along also, providing critical spiritual guidance on the practical matters of choosing campsites and times for attack as well as divining unforeseen omens, several of which were sure to appear. It was to be a small party of about twenty warriors and they would be looking for booty rather than revenge.

There was great interest in this group because several of the young would be going out for the first time as full-fledged warriors, and the addition of such distinguished men to lead them produced enough excitement to upset the normally placid routine of Ten Bears’s camp.

Lieutenant Dunbar’s routine, already altered by his strange day and night in the ancient canyon, was upset, too. With so much going on, the meetings in the brush arbor were constantly interrupted, and after two days of this, they were discontinued.

Besieged as he was, Kicking Bird was happy to turn his full attention to planning for the raid. Stands With A Fist was glad for the cooling-off period, and so was Dances With Wolves. It was plain to him that she was making an extra effort to keep her distance, and he was relieved to see the sessions end for that reason if for no other.

Preparations for the war party intrigued him, and he shadowed Kicking Bird as much as he could.

The medicine man seemed to be in touch with the entire camp, and Dances With Wolves was delighted to be included, even if it was only to observe. Though far from fluent, he was close now to the gist of what was being said and had become so proficient in sign language that Stands With A Fist was rarely called upon during the final days before the war party left.

It was a first-rate education for the former Lieutenant Dunbar. He sat in on many meetings at which responsibilities were delegated to each member of the party with remarkable care and tact. Reading between the lines, he could see that, among Kicking Bird’s many outstanding qualities, none counted more than his ability to make each man feel he was a crucially important member of the coming expedition.

Dances With Wolves also got to spend time with Wind In His Hair. Because Wind In His Hair had fought the Pawnee on many occasions, his stories of these encounters were in demand. In fact, they were vital to the preparation of the party’s younger men. Informal classes in warfare were conducted in and around Wind In His Hair’s lodge, and as the days sped by, Dances With Wolves became infected.

The infection was low-grade at first, nothing more than idle reflections on what the warpath would be like. But eventually he was caught up with a strong desire to take the trail against the Comanches’ enemies.

He waited patiently for opportune times when he could ask about going along. He had his chances, but the moments came and went without him finding his tongue. He was made shy by the fear of someone saying no.

Two days before the party’s scheduled departure, a large herd of antelope was sighted near camp, and a group of warriors, including Dances With Wolves, rode out in search of meat.

Using the same surrounding technique they had employed with the buffalo, the men were able to kill a great number of the animals, about sixty head.

Fresh meat was always welcome, but more importantly, the appearance and successful hunting of the antelope was taken as a sign that the little war against the Pawnee would have a good result. The men going out would be made securer with the knowledge that their families wouldn’t be hard-pressed for food, even if they were gone several weeks.

A dance of thanks was held the same evening, and everyone was in high spirits. Everyone but Dances With Wolves. As the night wore on he watched from a distance, growing more and more morose. He was thinking only of being left behind, and now he could not stand the thought.

He maneuvered himself close to Stands With A Fist, and when the dance broke up, he was at her side.

“I want to talk to Kicking Bird,” he said.

Something was wrong, she thought. She read his eyes for clues but could find none.

“When?”

“Now.”

two

For some reason he couldn’t calm himself down. He was uncharacteristically nervous and fidgety, and as they walked to the lodge, both Stands With A Fist and Kicking Bird could see this.

His anxiety was still evident when they had seated themselves in Kicking Bird’s tipi. The medicine man skated over the usual formalities and came quickly to the point.

“Make your talk,” he said, speaking through Stands With A Fist.

“I want to go.”

“Go where?” she asked.

Dances With Wolves shifted restlessly, working up his courage.

“Against the Pawnee.”

This was relayed to Kicking Bird. Except for a slight widening of his eyes, the medicine man seemed unfazed.

“Why do you want to make war on the Pawnee?” he asked logically. “They have done nothing to you.”

Dances With Wolves thought for a moment.

“They are Comanche enemies.”

Kicking Bird didn’t like it. There was something forced about the request. Dances With Wolves was rushing.

“Only Comanche warriors can go on this ride,” he said flatly.

“I have been a warrior in the white man’s army longer than some of the young men who are going have been apprentices. Some of them are making war for the first time.”

“They have been taught in the Comanche way,” the medicine man said gently. “You have not. The white man’s way is not the Comanche way.”

Dances With Wolves lost a little of his resolve then. He knew he was losing. His voice dropped.

“I cannot learn the Comanche way of war if I stay in camp,” he said lowly.

It was difficult for Kicking Bird. He wished it was not happening.

His affection for Dances With Wolves was deep. The white soldier had been his responsibility, and the white soldier had shown himself to be worthy of the risks Kicking Bird had taken. He was more than worthy.

On the other hand, the medicine man had risen to a high and revered position through the dedicated gathering of wisdom. He was wise now and was able to understand the world well enough to be of great service to his people.

It was between affection for one man and service to his community that Kicking Bird was split. He knew it was no contest. All of his wisdom said it would be wrong to take Dances With Wolves.

As he struggled with the question he heard Dances With Wolves say something to Stands With A Fist.

“He asks that you talk to Ten Bears on this,” she said.

Kicking Bird looked into the hopeful eyes of his protégé and hesitated.

“I will do that,” he said.

three

Dances With Wolves slept poorly that night. He cursed himself for being too excited to sleep. He knew that no decision would be rendered until the next day, and tomorrow seemed too far away. He slept for ten minutes and woke for twenty all through the night. Half an hour before dawn he finally gave it up and went down to the river to bathe.

The idea of waiting around camp for word was unbearable and he jumped at the chance when Wind In His Hair asked if he wanted to go on a buffalo scout. They ranged far to the east, and it was well into the afternoon before they were back in camp.

He let Smiles A Lot take Cisco back to the pony herd and, with his heart beating wildly, stepped into Kicking Bird’s lodge.

No one was there.

He was determined to wait until someone returned, but through the back wall he could hear women’s voices mixed with the clatter of work, and the longer he listened, the less he could imagine what was going on. Not many minutes passed before curiosity drove him outside.

Directly behind Kicking Bird’s home, a few yards from the arbor, he found Stands With A Fist and the medicine man’s wives putting the final touches on a newly erected lodge.

They were stitching the last of the seams and he watched them work for a few moments before he spoke.

“Where’s Kicking Bird?”

“With Ten Bears,” she said.

“I will wait for him,” said Dances With Wolves, turning to go.

“If you want,” she said, not bothering to look up from her work, “you can wait in here.”

She stopped to brush at the beads of sweat running along her temple and faced him.

“We make this for you.”

four

The talk with Ten Bears didn’t last long, at least the substance of it didn’t.

The old man was in a good mood. His long-suffering bones loved the hot weather, and though he wasn’t going, the prospects for a successful venture against the hated Pawnee delighted him. His grandchildren were round as butterballs from summer feasting, and all three of his wives had been especially cheerful of late.

Kicking Bird could not have picked a better time to see him about a delicate matter.

As the medicine man told him about Dances With Wolves’s request, Ten Bears listened impassively. He repacked his pipe before replying.

“You have told me what is in his heart,” the old man wheezed. “What is in yours?”

He offered Kicking Bird the pipe.

“My heart says he is too anxious. He wants too much, too soon. He is a warrior, but he is not a Comanche. He will not be a Comanche for a while.”

Ten Bears smiled.

“You always speak well, Kicking Bird. And you see it well.’

The old fellow lit the pipe and passed it over.

“Now tell me,” he said, “what is it that you would like my advice on?”

five

It was a terrible letdown at first. The only thing he could compare it to was a reduction in rank. But it was more disappointing than that. He had never been so disappointed.

And yet he was shocked at how quickly the hurt of it passed. It was gone almost as soon as Kicking Bird and Stands With A Fist left the lodge.

He lay on the new bed in his new home and wondered about this change. It had only been minutes since he got the word, but he wasn’t crushed at all now. It was a tiny disappointment now. It’s something to do with being here, he thought, being with these people. It’s something to do with being unspoiled. Kicking Bird had done everything very precisely. He came trailed by the two women carrying robes, Stands With A Fist and one of his wives.

After they’d made up the new bed the wife had departed, and the three, Kicking Bird, Stands With A Fist, and Dances With Wolves, had stood facing one another in the center of the tipi.

Kicking Bird never made mention of the raid or the decision that had gone against him. He just started talking.

“It would be good if you make talk with Stands With A Fist while I’m gone. You should do this in my lodge so that my family can see. I want them to know you while I’m gone and I want you to know them. I will feel better to know that you are looking after my family while I’m away. Come to my fire and eat if you are hungry.”

Once the invitation to dinner was made, the medicine man turned abruptly and left, Stands With A Fist following him.

As he watched them go, Dances With Wolves was surprised to feel his depression evaporating. In its place was a feeling of elation. He didn’t feel small at all. He felt bigger.

Kicking Bird’s family would be under his protection, and the idea of serving them in that role was one he looked forward to instantly. He would be with Stands With A Fist again and that, too, gave him heart.

The war party would be gone for some time, thus giving him the opportunity to learn a lot of Comanche. And in learning he knew he would be picking up more than language. If he worked very hard he would be on a whole new level by the time his mentors returned. He liked that idea.

Drums had started up in the village. The big send-off dance was beginning and he wanted to go. He loved the dancing.

Dances With Wolves rolled off the bed and looked around his lodge. It was empty, but before long it would hold the slim trappings of his life, and it was pleasant to think about having something to call his own again.

He stepped through the lodge flap and paused in the twilight outside. He had daydreamed his way past dinner, but the woodsmoke from the cooking fires was still thick in the air and the smell of it satisfied him.

A thought came to Dances With Wolves then.

I should be staying here, he said to himself, it’s much the better idea.

He started off toward the sound of the drums.

When he reached the main avenue he fell in with a pair of warriors he knew. In signs they asked him if he would dance tonight. Dances With Wolves’s reply was so positive that it made the men laugh.

one

Once the party was away, the village settled into a life of pastoral routine, a timeless rotation of dawn to day to dusk to night that made the prairie seem the only place on earth.

Dances With Wolves fell quickly into step with the cycle, moving through it in a pleasant, dreamlike way. A life of riding and hunting and scouting was physically taxing, but his body had adapted well, and once the rhythm of his days was established he found most activities effortless.

Kicking Bird’s family required much of his time. The women did virtually all of the work around camp, but he felt obliged to monitor their day-to-day lives and those of the children, the result being that somehow his hands were always full.

Wind In His Hair had presented him with a good bow and a quiver of arrows at the farewell dance. He was thrilled with the gift and sought out an older warrior named Stone Calf, who taught him the finer points of its use. In the space of a week the two became fast friends, and Dances With Wolves showed up regularly at Stone Calf’s lodge.

He learned how to care for and make quick repairs on weapons. He learned the words to several important songs and how to sing them. He watched Stone Calf make fire from a little wooden kit and saw him make his own personal medicine.

He was a willing pupil for these lessons and quick to learn, so quick that Stone Calf gave him the nickname Fast. He scouted a few hours each day, as did most of the other men. They went out in groups of three or four, and in a short time Dances With Wolves had a rudimentary knowledge of necessary things, like how to read the age of tracks and determine weather patterns.

The buffalo came and went in their mysterious way. Some days they would see none at all, and some days they would see so many that it became a joke.

On the two points that counted, the scouting was a success. There was fresh meat for the taking and the countryside was devoid of enemies.

After only a few days he was wondering why everyone didn’t live in a lodge. When he thought of the places he had lived before, he could envision nothing but a collection of sterile rooms.

To him the lodge was a true home. It was cool on the hottest days, and no matter what sort of fuss was going on in camp, the circle of space inside seemed filled with peace.

He came to love the time he passed there by himself.

His favorite part of the day was late afternoon, and more often than not, he could be found close to the lodge flap, performing some little job like cleaning his boots while he watched the clouds change formation or listened to the light whistle of wind.

Without really trying, these late afternoons by himself shut down the machinery of his mind, letting his mind rest in a refreshing way.

two

It didn’t take long, however, for one facet of his life to dominate all the others.

That was Stands With A Fist.

Their talks began again, this time under the casual but always present eyes of Kicking Bird’s family.

The medicine man had left instructions to keep meeting, but without Kicking Bird to guide them, there was no clear-cut direction for the lessons to take.

The first few days consisted mainly of mechanical, unexciting reviews.

In a way, it was just as well. She was still confused and embarrassed. The dryness of their first one-on-one meetings made it easier to pick up the thread of the past. It allowed her needed distance in getting used to him again.

Dances With Wolves was content to have it that way. The tedium of their exchanges was measured against his sincere desire to patch up whatever had damaged the link between them, and he waited patiently through the first few days, hoping for a thaw.

The Comanche was coming well, but it soon became apparent that sitting in the lodge all morning placed limitations on how fast he could learn it. So many things he needed to know about were outside. And family interruptions were never-ending.

But he waited on without complaint, letting Stands With A Fist skip over words she couldn’t explain.

One afternoon just after the noon meal, when she couldn’t find the word for grass, Stands With A Fist finally took him outside. One word led to another, and on that day they didn’t return to the lodge for more than an hour. Instead, they strolled through the village, so intent on their studies that time ran out with little thought of its passage.

The pattern was repeated and reinforced in the days that followed. They became a common sight, a pair of talkers roving the village, oblivious to all but the objects comprising their work: bone, lodge flap, sun, hoof, kettle, dog, stick, sky, child, hair, robe, face, far, near, here, there, bright, dull, and on and on and on.

Every day the language took deeper root in him and soon Dances With Wolves could make more than words. Sentences were forming and he strung them together with a zeal that caused many mistakes.

“Fire grows on the prairie.”

“Eating water is good for me.”

“Is that man a bone?”

He was like a good runner who falls every third stride, but he kept hacking at the morass of the new language, and by sheer force of will he made remarkable progress.

No amount of failure could flag his spirits, and he scrambled over every obstacle with the kind of good humor and determination that makes a person fun.

They were in the lodge less and less. The outside was free, and a special quiet was now in place over the village. It had become unusually peaceful.

Everyone was thinking about the men who had gone out to face uncertain events in the country of the Pawnee. With each timeless day relatives and friends of the men in the war party prayed more devoutly for their safety. Overnight it seemed, prayers had become the single most obvious feature of camp life, finding their way into every meal, meeting, and job, no matter how small or fleeting.

The holiness that shrouded the camp gave Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist a perfect environment in which to operate. Sunk as they were in this time of waiting and prayer, other people paid little attention to the white couple. They moved around in a serene, well-protected bubble, an entity unto themselves.

They shared three or four hours each day, without touching and without talking about themselves. On the surface a careful formality was observed. They laughed at things together and they commented on ordinary phenomena like the weather. But feelings about themselves lay concealed at all times. Stands With A Fist was being careful with her feelings, and Dances With Wolves respected that.

three

A profound change took place two weeks after the party went out.

Late one afternoon, after a long scout under a brutal sun, Dances With Wolves returned to Kicking Bird’s lodge, found no one there, and, thinking the family gone to the river, headed down to the water.

Kicking Bird’s wives were there, scrubbing their children. Stands With A Fist was not around. He hung about long enough to get splashed by the kids and climbed back up the path to the village.

The sun was still brutal, and when he saw the arbor, the thought of its shade pulled him over.

He was halfway inside before he realized she was there. The regular session had already been held, and both of them were embarrassed.

Dances With Wolves sat down at a modest distance from her and said hello.

“It . . . it is hot,” she answered, as if making an excuse for her presence.

“Yes,” he agreed, “Very hot.”

Though he didn’t have to, he swiped at his forehead. It was a silly way of making sure she could see he was here for the same reason.

But as he made the fake gesture, Dances With Wolves checked himself. A sudden urge had come over him, an urge to tell her how he felt.

He just started to talk. He told her he was confused. He told her how good it felt to be here. He told her about the lodge and how good it was to have it. He took the breastplate in both hands and told her how he thought of it, that to him it was something great. He lifted it to his cheek and said, “I love this.”

Then he said, “But I’m white . . . and I’m a soldier. Is it good for me to be here or is it a foolish thing? Am I foolish?”

He could see complete attention in her eyes.

“Is no . . . I don’t know,” she answered.

There was a little silence. He could see she was waiting.

“I don’t know where to go,” he said quietly. “I don’t know where to be.”

She turned her head slowly and stared out the doorway.

“I know,” she said.

She was still lost in thought, staring out at the afternoon, when he said, “I want to be here.”

She turned back to him. Her face looked huge. The sinking sun had given it a soft glow. Her eyes, wide with feeling, had the same glow.

“Yes,” she said, understanding exactly how he felt.

She dropped her head. When she looked back up, Dances With Wolves felt swallowed, just as he had felt out on the prairie with Timmons for the first time. Her eyes were the eyes of a soulful person, filled with a beauty few men could know. They were eternal.

Dances With Wolves fell in love when he saw this.

Stands With A Fist had already fallen in love. It happened at the time he began to speak, not all at once but in slow stages until at last she could not deny it. She saw herself in him. She saw that they could be one.

They talked a little more and fell silent. For a few minutes they stared at the afternoon, each knowing what the other was feeling but not daring to speak.

The spell was broken when one of Kicking Bird’s little boys happened by, looked inside, and asked what they were doing.

Stands With A Fist smiled at his innocent intrusion and told him in Comanche, “It is hot. We are sitting in the shade.”

This made so much sense to the little boy that he came in and flopped onto Dances With Wolves’s lap. They wrestled playfully for a few moments, but the roughhousing didn’t last long.

The little boy suddenly sat up and told Stands With A Fist he was hungry.

“All right,” she said in Comanche, and took him by the hand.

She looked at Dances With Wolves

“Eat?”

“Yes, I’m hungry.”

They crawled out of the arbor’s doorway and started for Kicking Bird’s lodge to get a cooking fire going.

four

His first order of business the next morning was to visit Stone Calf. He dropped by the warrior’s lodge early and was immediately invited to sit down and have breakfast. After they’d eaten the two men went outside to talk while Stone Calf worked on forming the willow for a new batch of arrows. Except for Stands With A Fist, it was the most sophisticated conversation he’d had with anyone.

Stone Calf was impressed that this Dances With Wolves, so new among them, was talking in Comanche already. And talking well.

The older warrior could also tell that Dances With Wolves wanted something, and when the discussion suddenly shifted to Stands With A Fist, he knew that this must be it.

Dances With Wolves tried to put it as casually as he could, but Stone Calf was too much the old fox not to see that the question was important to his visitor.

“Is Stands With A Fist married?”

“Yes,” Stone Calf replied.

The revelation hit Dances With Wolves like the worst kind of news.

He was silent.

“Where is her husband?” he finally asked. “I do not see him.”

“He is dead.”

This was a possibility he had never considered.

“When did he die?”

Stone Calf looked up from his work.

“It is impolite to talk of the dead,” he said. “But you are new so I will tell you. It was around the time of the cherry moon, in spring. She was grieving on the day you found her and brought her back.”

Dances With Wolves didn’t ask any more questions, but Stone Calf volunteered a few more facts. He mentioned the relatively high standing of the dead man and the absence of children in his marriage to Stands With A Fist.

Needing to digest what he had heard, Dances With Wolves thanked his informant and walked off.

Stone Calf wondered idly if there might be something going on between these people, and deciding it was none of his business, he went back to his work.

five

Dances With Wolves did the one thing he could count on to clear his head. He found Cisco in the pony herd and rode out of the village. He knew she would be waiting for him in Kicking Bird’s lodge, but his mind was spinning wildly with what he’d been told and he couldn’t think of facing her now.

He went downriver and, after a mile or two, decided to go all the way to Fort Sedgewick. He hadn’t been there for almost two weeks and felt an impulse to go now as if in some strange way the place might be able to tell him something.

Even from a distance he could see that late summer storms had finished the awning. It had been torn away from most of the staves. The canvas itself was badly shredded. What was left was flapping in the breeze like the ragged mainsail of a ghost ship.

Two Socks was waiting near the bluff and he threw the old fellow the slab of jerked meat he’d brought along for nibbling. He wasn’t hungry.

Field mice scattered as he peeked into the rotted supply house. They’d destroyed the only thing he’d left behind, a burlap sack filled with moldy hardtack.

In the sod hut that had been his home he lay down on the little bunk for a few minutes and stared at the crumbling walls.

He took his father’s broken pocket watch off its peg, intending to slip it into his trouser pocket. But he looked at it for a few seconds and put it back.

His father had been dead six years. Or was it seven? His mother had been dead even longer. He could recall the details of his life with them, but the people . . . the people seemed like they’d been gone a hundred years.

He noticed the journal sitting on one of the camp stools and picked it up. It was odd, leafing through the entries. They, too, seemed old and gone, like something from a past life.

Sometimes he laughed at what he had written, but on the whole he was moved. His life had been made over, and pieces of the record were set down here. It was only a curiosity now and had no bearing on his future. But it was interesting to look back and see how far he had come.