Dances With Wolves (11 page)

Dunbar watched expectantly as they began to sip and was surprised when they screwed up their faces. Something was wrong. They both spoke a few words at once, a question, it seemed.

The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

The Indians held a brief but inconclusive conference. Then Kicking Bird had an idea. He made a fist, held it over the cup, and opened his hand, as if he were letting something drop into the coffee. He pretended to stir what he had dropped with a twig.

Lieutenant Dunbar said something he didn’t understand and then Kicking Bird watched as the white man jumped up, walked to the badly made house of earth, returned with another sack, and handed it around the fire.

Kicking Bird looked inside, grunting when he saw the brown crystals.

Lieutenant Dunbar saw a smile flicker on the Indian’s face and knew he had guessed right. Sugar was what they had wanted.

six

Kicking Bird was especially encouraged by the white soldier’s enthusiasm. He wanted to make talk, and when they introduced themselves, Loo Ten Nant asked for the names several times, until he could speak them in the right way. He looked odd and he did some odd things, but the white man was eager to listen and seemed to have large stores of energy. Perhaps because he himself was so inclined toward peace, Kicking Bird greatly appreciated the force of energy in others.

He talked more than Kicking Bird was used to. When he thought about it, it seemed the white man never stopped talking the whole time.

But he was entertaining. He did strange dances and made strange signals with his hands and face. He even did some impressions that made Wind In His Hair laugh. And that was hard to do.

Aside from his general impressions, Kicking Bird had found out some things. Loo Ten Nant could not be a god. He was far too human. And he was alone. No one else was living there. But he did not learn why he was alone. Nor did he learn if more white men were coming and what their plans might be. Kicking Bird was anxious for the answers to these questions.

Wind In His Hair was just ahead. They were riding single file along a trail winding through a stand of cottonwoods close by the river. There was only the mushy plop of the ponies’ hooves in the wet sand, and he wondered what Wind In His Hair thought. They had not yet compared notes on the meeting. It worried him a little.

Kicking Bird needn’t have worried, for Wind In His Hair was also favorably impressed. This despite the fact that killing the white soldier crossed his mind several times. He had long thought white men were no more than useless irritations, coyotes getting around the meat. But more than once this white soldier had showed some bravery. He was friendly, too. And he was funny. Very funny.

Kicking Bird looked down at the two bags, the coffee and sugar flopping against his horse’s shoulders, and the idea came into his mind that he actually liked the white soldier. It was a strange idea and he had to think about it.

Well, what if I do? the medicine man thought at last.

He heard the muffled sound of laughter. It seemed to be coming from Wind In His Hair. Again there was a laugh out loud and the stern warrior turned on his pony, speaking over his shoulder.

“That was funny,” he sputtered, “when the white man became a buffalo.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned back to the trail. But Kicking Bird could see Wind In His Hair’s shoulders bouncing to the beat of stifled giggles.

It was funny. Loo Ten Nant walking around on his knees, his hands growing out of his head for horns. And that blanket, that blanket stuffed under his shirt for a hump.

No, Kicking Bird smiled to himself, nothing is stranger than a white man.

seven

Lieutenant Dunbar spread the heavy robe out on his bunk and marveled at it.

I have never seen a buffalo, he thought pridefully, and already I have a buffalo robe.

Then he sat down rather reverently on the edge of the bed, fell onto his back, and swept his hands across the soft, thick hide. He lifted one of the edges hanging over the bunk and inspected the curing. He pressed his face against the fur and savored the wild smell.

How quickly things can change. A few hours before, he’d been rocked off his foundations, and now he was floating.

He frowned slightly. Some of his deportment, that buffalo thing, for instance, might have gone overboard. And he seemed to have done most of the talking, perhaps too much. But these were tiny doubts. As he ruminated on the great robe, he couldn’t help but be encouraged by his first real encounter.

He liked both Indians. The one with the smooth, dignified manner he liked most. There was something strong about him, something in his peaceful, patient manner that was appealing. He was quiet but manly. The other one, the hot-tempered one who had taken the girl from his arms, was certainly nobody to fool with. But he was fascinating.

And the robe. They had given it to him. The robe was really something.

The lieutenant played back other remembrances as he relaxed on his beautiful souvenir. With all these fresh thoughts flying through his head there was no room and no inclination to delve into the true source of his euphoria.

He had made good use of his time alone, time he had shared only with a horse and a wolf. He had done a good job with the fort. All of that was a mark in his favor. But the waiting and the worrying had clung to him like grease in a wrinkle, and the weight of this load had been considerable.

Now it was gone, lifted by two primitive men whose language he did not speak, whose likes he had not seen, whose entire state of being was alien.

Unwittingly they had done a great service by coming. The root of Dunbar’s euphoria could be found in deliverance. Deliverance from himself.

He was no longer alone.

one

May 17, 1863

I’ve written nothing in this record for many days. So much has happened that I hardly know where to begin.

The Indians have come to visit on three occasions thus far and I have no doubt there will be more. Always the same two with their escort of six or seven other warriors. (I am amazed that all these people are warriors. Have not seen a man yet who is not a fighter.)

Our meetings have been highly amicable, though greatly hampered by the language barrier. Whatever I have learned to date is so little compared to what I could know. I still don’t know what type of Indians they are but suspect them to be Comanche. I believe I have heard a word that sounds like Comanche more than once.

I know the names of my visitors but could not begin to spell them. I find them agreeable and interesting men. They are different as night and day. One is exceedingly fiery and is no doubt a leading warrior. His physique (which is something to behold) and his sullen, suspicious disposition must make him a formidable fighter. I sincerely hope I never have to fight him, for I should be hard-pressed if it came to that. This fellow, whose eyes are rather close-set but must be called handsome nonetheless, greatly covets my horse and never fails to engage me in conversation about Cisco.

We converse in made-up signs, a sort of pantomime which both Indians are starting to get the hang of. But it is very slow going, and most of our common ground has been established on the basis of failure rather than success in communication.

The fierce one dumps extraordinary amounts of sugar into his coffee. It won’t be long before that ration is exhausted. Luckily, I do not take sugar. Ha! The fierce one (as I call him) is likable despite his taciturn manner, rather like a king of street toughs who, by virtue of his physical prowess, commands respect. Having spent some time on the streets myself, I respect him in this way.

Beyond that, there is a crude honesty and intent which I like.

He is a direct fellow.

I call the other man the quiet one and like him immensely. Unlike the fierce one, he is patient and inquisitive.

I think he is as frustrated as I with the language difficulties. He has taught me a few words of their speech, and I have done the same for him. I know the Comanche words for head, hand, horse, fire, coffee, house, and several others, as well as hello and good-bye. I don’t know enough yet to make a sentence. It takes a long time to get the sounds right. I have no doubt it is hard for him as well.

The quiet one calls me Loo Ten Nant and for some reason does not use Dunbar. I am sure he doesn’t forget to use it (I have reminded him several times), so there must be another reason. It certainly has a distinctive ring . . . Loo Ten Nant.

He strikes me as being possessed of a first-rate intelligence. He listens with care and seems to notice everything. Every shift in the wind, every random call of a bird, is as likely to catch his attention as something much more dramatic. Without language I am reduced to reading his reactions with my senses, but by all appearances he is favorably inclined toward me.

There was an incident concerning Two Socks which aptly illustrates this point. It occurred at the end of their most recent visit. We’d drunk a substantial amount of coffee and I had just introduced my guests to the wonders of slab bacon. The quiet one suddenly noticed Two Socks on the bluff across the river. He said a few words to the fierce one and they both watched the wolf. Being anxious to show them what I knew of Two Socks, I took knife and bacon in hand and went to the edge of the bluff on our side of the river.

The fierce one was occupied with sugaring his coffee and tasting the bacon, and watched from where he sat. But the quiet one got up and followed me. I usually leave Two Socks scraps on my side of the river, but after I had cut away his ration, something got into me and I hurled it across the river. It was a good toss, landing only a few feet from Two Socks. He just sat there, however, and for a time I thought he would do nothing. But bless the old man’s heart if he didn’t walk over and sniff around the bacon and then pick it up. I’d never seen him take the meat before, and felt a certain pride in him as he trotted off with the goods.

To me it was a happy event and nothing more. But the quiet one seemed unduly affected by this display. When I turned back to him, his face seemed more peaceful than ever. He nodded at me several times, then walked up and put his hand on my shoulder as though he approved.

Back at the fire he performed a series of signs which I was finally able to discern as an invitation to visit his home on the next day. I readily accepted, and they departed soon after.

It would be impossible to give a full account of all my impressions of the Comanche camp. I should be writing forever were that the case. But I shall try to give a brief sketch in hopes that my observations may prove of some use in future dealings with these people.

I was met a mile out by a small delegation with the quiet one at its head. We proceeded on to the village without delay. The people had turned out in their best wardrobes to meet us. The color and beauty of these costumes is something to see. They were strangely subdued, and so, I must admit, was I. A few of the smaller children broke ranks and ran up to tap me about the legs with their hands. Everyone else held back.

We dismounted in front of one of the conical houses and there was a brief moment of doubt when a boy of about twelve ran up and tried to lead Cisco away. We had a short tug-of-war with the bridle, but the quiet one interceded. Again he placed a hand on my shoulder and the look in his eyes told me I had nothing to fear. I let the boy take Cisco away. He seemed delighted.

Then the quiet one showed me into his abode. The place was dark but not uncheerful. It smelled of smoke and meat. (The entire village has a distinct odor which I find not distasteful. As close as I can describe it, it is the smell of a wild life.) There were two women and several children inside. The quiet one bade me to sit down, and the women brought food in bowls. Everyone disappeared then, leaving us alone.

We ate in silence for a time. I thought of making inquiries about the girl I found on the prairie. I had not seen her and whether she still lived, I did not know. (I still do not know.) But it seemed far too complicated a subject considering our limitations, so we talked as best we could about the food (a kind of sweet meat I found delicious).

When we had finished I made a cigarette and smoked it while the quiet one sat across from me. His attention was constantly diverted to the entrance. I felt sure we were waiting for someone or something. My assumption was correct, for it was not long before the flap of hide opened and two Indians appeared. They spoke something to the quiet one and he immediately rose, making a sign for me to follow.

A considerable crowd of onlookers was waiting outside, and I was jostled in the crush of humanity as we made our way past several other homes before stopping at one which was decorated with a large, solid-colored bear. Here I was pushed gently inside by the quiet one. There were five older men sitting in a rough circle around the customary fire pit, but my gaze fell immediately on the oldest among them. He was a powerfully built man whom I guessed to be past sixty though still remarkably fit. His leather shirt was adorned with beadwork of intricate beauty, the designs being precise and colorful. Attached to a lock of his graying hair was a huge claw, which I judged, owing to the design outside, had once belonged to a bear. Hair was hanging at intervals along his shirtsleeves, and I realized a moment later that these must be scalps. One of them was light brown. That was unsettling.

But the most salient feature of all was his face. Never have I seen such a face. His eyes were of a brightness that might only be compared to fever. His cheekbones were extremely high and round, and his nose was curved like a beak. His chin was very square. Lines ran in such heavy profusion along the skin of his face that to call them wrinkles hardly seems adequate. They were on the order of crevices. One side of his forehead carried a distinct dent, probably the result of some long-ago battle injury. He was altogether a stunning image of aged wisdom and strength. But for all this I never felt threatened during my short stay.

It seemed clear that I was the reason for this conference. I was certain that I had been produced for the sole purpose of allowing the old man a close look at me.

A pipe appeared and the men began to smoke. It was long-stemmed, and from what I could tell, the tobacco was a harsh, native blend, for I alone was excluded from the smoking. I was eager to make a good impression, and being in want of a cigarette of my own, I took out the fixings and offered them to the old man. The quiet one said something to him, and the chieftain reached across with one of his gnarled hands and took the pouch and papers. He made a careful inspection of my things. Then he looked at me sharply with his heavy-lidded, rather cruel-looking eyes and handed the fixings back. Not knowing if my offer had been accepted, I rolled a smoke anyway. The old man seemed interested as I went about it.

I held the cigarette out and he took it. The quiet one said something again and the old man handed it back. With signs, the quiet one asked me to smoke and I complied with his request.

As they all watched, I lit up, inhaled, and blew out the smoke. Before I could have another puff the old man was reaching out. I gave it to him. He looked at it with some caution at first, then inhaled as I had done. And as I had done, he exhaled in a stream. Then he drew the cigarette close to his face.

To my chagrin, he began to roll his fingers to and fro in a rapid way. The ember fell off and the tobacco spilled out. He rolled the empty paper into a ball and carelessly tossed it into the fire.

Slowly he began to smile, and in short order all the men around the fire were laughing,

Perhaps I had been insulted, but their good humor was such that I was swept up in the contagion of it.

Afterwards I was shown to my horse and escorted a mile or so from the village, where the quiet one bid me a curt good-bye.

That is the essential record of my first visit to the Indian camp. I do not know what they are thinking now.

It was good to see Fort Sedgewick again. It is my home. And yet, I look forward to another visit with my “neighbors.”

When I look at the eastern horizon I rarely fail to wonder if a column might be out there. I can only hope that my vigilance here and my “negotiations” with the wild people of the plains will, in the meantime, bear fruit.

Lt. John J. Dunbar U.S.A.