Dances With Wolves (17 page)

He found what he wanted, gave it a couple of stiff tugs, and rose to his feet with a liver so large that it flopped over both his hands. Mimicking the white soldier’s well-known bow, he presented this prize to the dumbstruck lieutenant. Gingerly, Dunbar accepted the steaming organ, but having no idea what to do, he fell back on his trusty bow and, politely as he could, handed the liver back.

Normally, Wind In His Hair might have taken offense, but he reminded himself that “Jun” was white and therefore ignorant. He made yet another bow, stuffed one end of the still warm liver into his mouth and tore off a substantial chunk.

Lieutenant Dunbar watched incredulously as the warrior passed the liver to his friends. They also gnawed off pieces of the raw meat. They were eating it greedily, as if it were fresh apple pie.

By now a little crowd, some mounted, some on foot, had gathered around Dunbar’s buffalo. Kicking Bird was there, and so was Stands With A Fist. She and another woman had already begun to skin the dead bull.

Once again wind In His Hair offered him the half-eaten meat and once again Dunbar took it. He held it dumbly as his eyes searched for an expression or a sign from someone in the crowd that would let him off the hook.

He got no help. They were watching him silently, waiting expectantly, and he realized it would be foolishly transparent to try to pass it off again. Even Kicking Bird was waiting.

So as Dunbar lifted the liver to his mouth he told himself how easy this was, that it would be no more difficult than forcing down a spoonful of something he hated, like lima beans.

Hoping he wouldn’t gag, he bit into the liver.

The meat was incredibly tender. It melted in his mouth. He watched the horizon as he chewed, and for the moment Lieutenant Dunbar forgot about his silent audience as his taste buds sent a surprising message to his brain.

The meat was delicious.

Without thinking, he took another bite. A spontaneous smile broke across his face and he lifted what was left of the meat triumphantly over his head.

His fellow hunters answered his gesture with a chorus of wild cheers.

one

Like many people, Lieutenant Dunbar had spent most of his life on the sidelines, observing rather than participating. At the times when he was a participant, his actions were distinctly independent, much like his experience in the war had been.

It was a frustrating thing, always standing apart.

Something about this lifelong rut changed when he enthusiastically lifted the liver, the symbol of his kill, and heard the cries of encouragement from his fellows. Then he had felt the satisfaction of belonging to something whose whole was greater than any of its parts. It was a feeling that ran deep from the start. And in the days he spent on the killing plain and the nights he spent in the temporary camp, the feeling was solidly reinforced.

The army had tirelessly extolled the virtues of service, of individual sacrifice in the name of God or country or both. The lieutenant had done his best to adopt these tenets, but the feeling of service to the army had dwelled mostly in his head. Not in his heart. It never lasted beyond the fading, hollow rhetoric of patriotism.

The Comanches were different.

They were primitive people. They lived in a big, lonely, alien world that was written off by his own people as nothing more than hundreds of worthless miles to be crossed.

But the facts of their lives had grown less important to him. They were a group who lived and prospered through service. Service was how they controlled the fragile destiny of their lives. It was constantly being rendered, faithfully and without complaint, to the simple, beautiful spirit of the way they lived, and in it Lieutenant Dunbar found a peace that was to his liking.

He did not deceive himself. He did not think of becoming an Indian. But he knew that so long as he was with them, he would serve the same spirit.

He was made a happier man by this revelation.

two

The butchering was a colossal enterprise.

There were perhaps seventy dead buffalo, scattered like chocolate drops across a great earthen floor, and at each body families set up portable factories that worked with amazing speed and precision in transforming animals into usable products.

The lieutenant could not believe the blood. It soaked into the killing ground like juice spilled on a tablecloth. It covered the arms and faces and clothing of the butcherers. It dripped from the ponies and travois transporting the flesh back to camp.

They took everything: hides, meat, guts, hooves, tails, heads. In the space of a few hours it was all gone, leaving the prairie with the appearance of a gigantic, recently cleared banquet table.

Lieutenant Dunbar passed the butchering time lolling around with the other warriors. Spirits were high. Only two men had been hurt, neither of them seriously. One veteran pony had snapped a foreleg, but that was little to lose when compared with the abundance the hunters had produced.

They were delighted, and it showed in their faces as they hobnobbed through the afternoon, smoking and eating and swapping stories. Dunbar didn’t understand the words, but the stories were easy enough to pick up. They were tales of close calls and broken bows and the ones who had gotten away.

When the lieutenant was called upon to relate his story, he mimed the adventure with a theatricality that drove the warriors crazy with laughter. It became the day’s most sought-after testimonial, and he was forced to repeat it a half-dozen times. The result was the same with every telling. By the time he was halfway through, his listeners would be hugging themselves, trying to hold back the ache of unbridled laughter.

Lieutenant Dunbar didn’t mind. He was laughing, too. And he didn’t mind the role that luck had played in his deeds, for he knew that they were real. And he knew that through them he had accomplished something marvelous.

He had become “one of the boys.”

three

The first thing he saw when they returned to camp that evening was his hat. It was riding on the head of a middle-aged man whom he did not know.

There was a brief moment of tension as Lieutenant Dunbar strode directly over, pointed at the army-issue hat, which fitted the man rather badly, and said, in a matter-of-fact way, “That’s mine.”

The warrior looked at him curiously and removed the hat. He turned it around in his hands and placed it back on his head. Then he slipped the knife off his belt, handed it to the lieutenant, and went on his way without saying a word.

Dunbar watched his hat bob out of sight and stared down at the knife in his hand. Its beaded sheath looked like a treasure, and he walked off to find Kicking Bird, thinking he’d gotten much the best part of the exchange.

He moved freely through the camp, and everywhere he went he found himself the object of cheerful salutations.

Men nodded acknowledgments, women smiled, and giggling children tottered after him. The band was delirious with the prospect of the great feast to come, and the lieutenant’s presence was an added source of joy. Without a formal proclamation or consensus they had come to think of him as a living good-luck charm.

Kicking Bird took him directly to Ten Bears’s lodge, where a little ceremony of thanks was being held. The old man was still remarkably fit, and the hump from his kill was being roasted first. When it was ready Ten Bears himself cut away a piece, said a few words to the Great Spirit, and honored the lieutenant by handing him the first piece.

Dunbar made his short bow, took a bite, and gallantly handed the slab back to Ten Bears, a move that impressed the old man greatly. He fired up his pipe and further honored the lieutenant by offering him the first puff.

The smoking in front of Ten Bears’s lodge marked the beginning of a wild night. Everyone had a fire going, and over every fire fresh meat was roasting; humps, ribs, and a wide array of other choice cuts.

Lit like a small city, the temporary village twinkled long into the night, its smoke trailing into the darkened sky with an aroma that could be smelled for miles.

The people ate like there was no tomorrow. When they were stuffed full they took short breaks, drifting off into little groups to make idle talk or to play at games of chance. But once the last meal had settled, they would return to the fires and gorge themselves again.

Before the night was very far along Lieutenant Dunbar felt like he had eaten an entire buffalo. He’d been touring the camp with Wind In His Hair, and at each fire the pair was treated like royalty.

They were en route to still another group of merrymakers when the lieutenant stopped in the shadows behind a lodge and told Wind In His Hair with signs that his stomach was hurting and that he wanted to sleep.

But at this moment Wind In His Hair wasn’t listening too closely. His attention was riveted on the lieutenant’s tunic. Dunbar looked down his chest at the row of brass buttons, then back into the face of his hunting pal. The warrior’s eyes were slightly glazed as he stuck out a finger and let it come to rest on one of the buttons.

“You want this?” the lieutenant asked, the sound of his words wiping the glaze from Wind In His Hair’s eyes.

The warrior said nothing. He inspected his fingertip to see if anything had come off the button.

“If you want it,” the lieutenant said, “you can have it.”

He loosed the buttons, slipped his arms free of the sleeves, and handed it to the warrior.

Wind In His Hair knew it was being offered, but he didn’t take it right away. Instead he began to undo the magnificent breastplate of shiny pipe-bone that was tied at his neck and waist. This he handed to Dunbar as his other brown hand closed around the tunic.

The lieutenant helped with the buttons, and when it was on he could see that Wind In His Hair was as delighted as a kid at Christmas. Dunbar handed back the beautiful breastplate and was met with rejection. Wind In His Hair shook his head violently and waved his hands. He made motions that told the white soldier to put it on.

“I can’t take this,” the lieutenant stammered. “This is not . . . it’s not a fair trade. . . . You understand?”

But Wind In His Hair wouldn’t hear of it. To him it was more than fair. Breastplates were full of power and took time to make. But the tunic was one of a kind.

He turned Dunbar around, draped the decorative armor over his chest, and fastened the ties securely.

So the trade was made and each man was happy. Wind In His Hair grunted a good-bye and started for the nearest fire. The new acquisition was tight and it itched against his skin. But that was of little import. He was certain that the tunic would prove to be a solid addition to his supply of charms. In time it might show itself to possess strong medicine, particularly the brass buttons and the golden bars on the shoulders.

It was a great prize.

four

Eager to avoid the food he knew would be foisted on him were he to cut through camp, Lieutenant Dunbar stole onto the prairie and circled the temporary village, hoping he could spot Kicking Bird’s lodge and go straightaway to sleep.

On his second full revolution he caught sight of the lodge marked with a bear, and knowing that Kicking Bird’s tipi would be pitched nearby, he reentered the camp.

He’d not gone far when a sound gave him pause, and he stopped behind a nondescript lodge. Light from a fire was splashing across the ground just in front of him, and it was from this fire that the sound was coming. It was singing, high and repetitious and distinctly feminine.

Hugging the wall of the lodge, Lieutenant Dunbar peered ahead in the manner of a Peeping Tom.

A dozen young women, their chores behind them for the moment, were dancing and singing in a ragged circle close to the fire. As far as he could tell, there was nothing ceremonial involved. The singing was punctuated by light laughter, and he figured that this dance was impromptu, something designed purely for fun.

His eyes accidentally fell on the breastplate. It was lit now with the orangish glow of the fire, and he couldn’t resist running a hand over the double row of tubelike bones that now covered the whole of his chest and stomach. What a rare thing it was to see such beauty and such strength residing in the same place at the same time. It made him feel special.

I will keep this forever, he thought dreamily.

When he looked up again several of the dancers had broken away to form a little knot of smiling, whispering women whose current topic was obviously the white man wearing the bone breastplate. They were looking straight at him, and though he didn’t perceive it, there was a touch of the devil in their eyes.

Having been a constant subject of discussion for many weeks, the lieutenant was well known to them: as a possible god, as a clown, as a hero, and as an agent of mystery. Unbeknownst to the lieutenant, he had achieved a rare status in Comanche culture, a status that was perhaps most appreciated by its women.

He was a celebrity.

And now, his celebrity and his natural good looks had been greatly enhanced in the eyes of the women by the addition of the stunning breastplate.

He made the suggestion of a bow and stepped self-consciously into the firelight, intending to pass through without further interrupting their fun.

But as he went by, one of the women reached out impulsively and took his hand gently in hers. The contact stopped him cold. He stared at the women, who were now giggling nervously, and wondered if some trick was about to be played on him.

Two or three of them began to sing, and as the dance picked up, several of the women tugged at his arms. He was being asked to join them.

There weren’t many people in the vicinity. He wouldn’t have an audience looking over his shoulder.

And besides, he told himself, a little exercise would be good for the digestion.

The dance was slow and simple. Raise one foot, hold it, put it down. Raise the other foot, hold it, put it down. He slipped into the circle and tried out the steps. He got them down quickly and it was no time before he was in sync with the other dancers, smiling just as broadly and enjoying himself enormously.

Dancing had always been easy to embrace. It was one of his favorite releases. As the music of the women’s voices carried him along, he lifted his feet ever higher, picking them up and dropping them with newly invented flair. He began to drive his arms like wheels, involving more and more of himself in the rhythm. At last, when he was really going good, the still-smiling lieutenant closed his eyes, losing himself fully in the ecstasy of motion.

This made it impossible for him to detect that the circle had begun to shrink. It was not until he bumped the rump of the woman in front of him that the lieutenant realized how close the quarters had become. He glanced apprehensively at the women in the circle, but they reassured him with cheerful smiles. Dunbar went right on dancing.

Now he could feel the occasional touch of breasts, unmistakably soft on his back. His waist was regularly contacting the rump in front of him. When he tried to hold up, the breasts would press in again.

None of this was as arousing as it was startling. He’d not felt a woman’s touch in so long that it seemed a thing brand-new, too new to know what to do.

There was nothing overt in the women’s faces as the circle closed tighter. Their smiles were constant. So was the pressure of buttocks and breasts.

He was no longer lifting his feet. They were jammed too close together and he was reduced to bobbing up and down.

The circle fell apart and the women surged in against him. Their hands were touching him playfully, toying with his back and his stomach and his rear end. Suddenly they were brushing his most private spot, at front of his pants.

In another second the lieutenant would have bolted, but before he could make a move, the women melted away.

He watched them skip into the darkness like embarrassed schoolgirls. Then he turned to see what had frightened them off.

He was standing alone at the edge of the fire, resplendent and ominous in an owl’s-head cap. Kicking Bird grunted something at him, but the lieutenant couldn’t tell whether or not he was displeased.