Dances With Wolves (18 page)

The medicine man turned away from the fire, and like a puppy who thinks he may have done something wrong but has yet to be punished, Lieutenant Dunbar followed.

five

As it turned out, there were no repercussions from his encounter with the dancing women. But to his despair Dunbar found the fire in front of Kicking Bird’s lodge crowded with still-feasting celebrants who insisted he take first crack at the roasting ribs just coming off the fire.

So the lieutenant sat a while longer, basking in the good cheer of the people around him, while he stuffed more meat into his swollen stomach.

An hour later he could barely hold his eyes open, and when they met at Kicking Bird’s, the medicine man rose up from his seat. He took the white soldier into the lodge and led him to a pallet that had been specially made up for him against a far wall.

Lieutenant Dunbar plopped down on the robe and began to pull off his boots. He was so sleepy that he didn’t think to say good night and only caught a glimpse of the medicine man’s back as he left the lodge.

Dunbar let the last boot flop carelessly on the floor and rolled into bed. He threw an arm over his eyes and floated off toward sleep. In the twilight before unconsciousness his mind began to fill with a steady-flowing stream of warm, unfocused, and vaguely sexual images. Women were moving around him. He couldn’t make out their faces, but he could hear the murmur of their soft voices. He could see

their forms passing close, swirling like the folds of a dress dancing in the breeze.

He could feel them touching him lightly, and as he drifted, he felt the press of bare flesh against his own.

six

Someone was giggling in his ear and he couldn’t open his eyes. They were too heavy. But the giggling persisted and soon he was aware of a smell in his nose. The buffalo robe. Now he could hear that the giggling was not in his ear. But it was close by. It was in the room.

He forced his eyes open and turned his head to the sound. He couldn’t see anything and raised up slightly. The lodge was quiet and the dim forms of Kicking Bird’s family were unmoving. Everyone seemed to be asleep.

Then he heard the giggle again. It was high and sweet, definitely a woman’s, and it was coming from a spot directly across the floor. The lieutenant raised up a little more, enough to let his gaze clear the dying fire in the center of the room.

The woman giggled again, and a man’s voice, low and gentle, floated across to him. He could see the strange bundle that always hung over Kicking Bird’s bed. The sounds were coming from there.

Dunbar could not guess what was going on and, giving his eyes a quick rub, raised himself a notch higher.

Now he could make out the forms of two people; their heads and shoulders were jutting out of the bedding, and their lively movement seemed out of place for so late an hour. The lieutenant narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the darkness.

The bodies shifted suddenly. One rose over the other and they settled into one. There was a moment of absolute silence before a long, low moan, like exhaled breath, swept into his ears, and Dunbar realized they were having sex.

Feeling like an ass, he sank quickly down, hoping neither lover had seen his stupid, gawking face staring across at them.

More awake than asleep now, he lay on the robe, listening to the steady, urgent sounds of their lovemaking. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and he could make out the shape of the sleeper closest to him.

The regular rise and fall of her bedding told him it was a deep sleep. She was lying on her side, her back turned to him. But he knew the shape of her head and the tangled, cherry-colored hair.

Stands With A Fist was sleeping alone and he began to wonder about her. She might be white by blood, but by all else she was one of these people. She spoke their language as if it were her native tongue. English was foreign to her. She didn’t act as if she were under any duress. There was not the slightest hint of the captive about her. She seemed to be an absolute equal in the band now. He guessed correctly that she had been taken when young.

As he wondered his way back to sleep, the questions about the woman who was two people gradually wove together until only one remained.

I wonder if she’s happy in her life, he asked himself.

The question stayed in his head, comingling lazily with the sounds of Kicking Bird and his wife making love.

Then, without any effort, the question began to spin, starting a slow whirl that gained speed with every turn. It circled faster and faster until at last he could see it no longer, and Lieutenant Dunbar fell asleep again.

one

They spent less than three full days in the temporary camp, and three days is a short time in which to undergo extensive change.

But that’s what happened.

Lieutenant Dunbar’s course in life shifted.

There was no single, bombastic event to account for the shift. He had no mystic visions. God did not make an appearance. He was not dubbed a Comanche warrior.

There was no moment of proof, no obvious relic of evidence a person could point to and say it was here or there, at this time or that.

It was as if some beautiful, mysterious virus of awakening that had been long in incubation finally came to the forefront of his life.

The morning after the hunt he woke with rare clarity. There was no hangover of sleep, and the lieutenant thought consciously about how long it had been since he’d woken like this. Not since he was a boy.

His feet were sticky, so he picked up his boots and crept past the sleepers in the lodge, hoping he would find a place outside to wash between his toes. He found the spot as soon as he stepped out of the tipi. The grass-covered prairie was soaked with dew for miles.

Leaving his boots next to the lodge, the lieutenant walked toward the east, knowing that the pony herd was out there somewhere. He wanted to check on Cisco.

The first rosy streaks of dawn had broken through the darkness and he watched them in awe as he walked, oblivious to the pant legs that were already sopping with dew.

Every day begins with a miracle, he thought suddenly.

The streaks were growing larger, changing colors by the second.

Whatever God may be, I thank God for this day.

He liked the words so much that he said them out loud.

“Whatever God may be, I thank God for this day.”

The heads of the first horses appeared, their pricked ears silhouetted against the dawn. He could see the head of an Indian, too. It was probably that boy who smiled all the time.

He found Cisco without much trouble. The buckskin nickered at his approach and the lieutenant’s heart swelled a little. His horse laid his soft muzzle against Dunbar’s chest and the two of them stood still for a few moments, letting the morning cool hang over them. The lieutenant gently lifted Cisco’s chin and blew breath into each of his nostrils.

Overcome with curiosity, the other horses began to press in around them, and before they could become annoying, Lieutenant Dunbar slipped a bridle over Cisco’s head and started back to camp.

Going in the opposite direction was just as impressive as coming out. The temporary village was tuned perfectly to nature’s clock, and like the day, it was slowly coming to life.

A few fires had started, and in the short time he’d been gone, it seemed as though everyone had gotten up. As the light grew brighter, like the gradual turning of a lamp, the figures moving about the camp did, too.

“What harmony,” the lieutenant said flatly as he walked with one arm slung over Cisco’s withers.

Then he lapsed into a deep and complex line of abstract thought concerning the virtues of harmony, which stuck to him all the way through breakfast.

two

They went out again that morning, and Dunbar killed another buffalo. This time he held Cisco well in check during the charge, and instead of plunging into the herd, he searched the fringe for a likely animal and rode it down. Though he took great care with his aim, the first shot was high and a second bullet was needed to finish the job.

The cow he took was large, and he was complimented on his good selection by a score of warriors who rode by to inspect his kill. There wasn’t the same kind of excitement that attended the first day’s hunting. He didn’t eat any fresh liver this day, but in every way, he felt more competent.

Once again women and children flooded onto the plain for the butchering, and by late afternoon the temporary camp was overflowing with meat. Uncounted drying racks, sagging under the weight of thousands of pounds of meat, sprang up like toadstools after a downpour, and there was more feasting on fresh-roasted delicacies.

The youngest warriors and a number of boys not ready for the warpath organized a horse-racing tournament shortly after they returned to camp. Smiles A Lot had his heart set on riding Cisco. He made his request with such respect that the lieutenant could not refuse him, and several races had been run before he realized to his horror that the winners were being given the horses of the losers. He rooted for Smiles A Lot with the fingers of both hands crossed, and fortunately for the lieutenant, the boy had won all three of his races.

Later on there was gambling, and Wind In His Hair got the lieutenant into a game. Except for being played with dice, it was unfamiliar, and learning the ropes cost Dunbar his whole tobacco supply. Some of the players were interested in the pants with the yellow stripes, but having already traded away his hat and tunic, the lieutenant thought he should retain some pretense of being in uniform.

Besides, the way things were going, he would lose the pants and have nothing to wear.

They liked the breastplate, but that, too, was out. He offered the old pair of boots he was wearing, but the Indians could see no value in them. Finally the lieutenant produced his rifle, and the players were unanimous in accepting it. Wagering a rifle created a big stir, and the game instantly became a high-stakes affair, drawing many observers.

By now the lieutenant knew what he was doing, and as the game continued, the dice took a liking to him. He hit a hot streak, and when the dust of his run had settled, he not only had held on to the rifle, but was now the new owner of three excellent ponies.

The losers gave up their treasures with such grace and good humor that Dunbar was moved to reply in kind. He immediately made presents of his winnings. The tallest and strongest of the three he gave to Wind In His Hair. Then, with a throng of the curious trailing in his wake, he led the remaining two horses through camp and, on reaching Kicking Bird’s lodge, handed both sets of reins to the medicine man.

Kicking Bird was pleased but bewildered. When someone explained where the horses had come from, he glanced around, caught sight of Stands With A Fist, and called her over, indicating that he wished her to speak for him.

She was a gruesome sight as she stood listening to the medicine man.

The butchering had splattered her arms and face and apron with blood.

She pleaded ignorance, shaking him off with her head, but Kicking Bird persisted, and the little assembly in front of the lodge fell silent, waiting to see if she could perform the English Kicking Bird had asked for.

She stared at her feet and mouthed a word several times. Then she looked at the lieutenant and tried it.

“Tankus,” she said.

The lieutenant’s face twitched.

“What?” he replied, forcing a smile.

“Tank.”

She poked his arm with a finger and swung her arm toward the ponies.

“Hotz.”

“Thank?” the lieutenant guessed. “Thank me?”

Stands With A Fist nodded.

“Yes,” she said clearly.

Lieutenant Dunbar reached out to shake with Kicking Bird, but she stopped him. She wasn’t finished, and holding a finger aloft, she stepped between the ponies.

“Horz,” she said, pointing to the lieutenant with her free hand. She repeated the word and pointed at Kicking Bird.

“One for me?” the lieutenant queried, using the same hand signs.

“And one for him?”

Stands With A Fist sighed happily, and knowing he understood her, she smiled thinly.

“Yes,” she said, and without thinking, another old word, perfectly popped out of her mouth. “Correct.”

It sounded so odd, this rigid, proper English word, that Lieutenant Dunbar laughed out loud, and like a teen-ager who has just said something silly, Stands With A Fist covered her mouth with a hand.

It was their joke. She knew the word had flown out like an inadvertent burp, and so did the lieutenant. Reflexively they looked to Kicking Bird and the others. The Indian faces were blank, however, and when the eyes of the cavalry officer and the woman who was two people came together again, they were dancing with the laughter of an inside thing only they could share. There was no way to adequately explain it to the others. It wasn’t funny enough to go to the trouble.

Lieutenant Dunbar didn’t keep the other pony. Instead he led it to Ten Bears’s lodge and, without knowing it, elevated his status even further. Comanche tradition called for the rich to spread their wealth among the less fortunate. But Dunbar reversed that, and the old man was left with the thought that this white man was truly extraordinary.

That night, as he was sitting around Kicking Bird’s fire, listening to a conversation he didn’t understand, Lieutenant Dunbar happened to see Stands With A Fist. She was squatting a few feet away and she was looking at him. Her head was tilted and her eyes seemed lost in curiosity. Before she could look away, he tipped his head in the direction of the warrior’s conversation, put on an official face, and laid a hand against the side of his mouth.

“Correct,” he whispered loudly.

She turned away quickly then. But as she did, he heard the distinct sound of a giggle.

three

To stay any longer would have been useless. They had all the meat they could possibly carry. Just after dawn everything was packed, and the column was on the march by midmorning. with every travois piled high, the return trip took twice as long, and it was getting dark by the time they reached Fort Sedgewick.

A travois loaded with several hundred pounds of jerked meat was brought up and unloaded into the supply house. A flurry of good-byes followed, and with Lieutenant Dunbar watching from the doorway of his sod hut, the caravan marched off for the permanent camp upstream.

Without forethought his eyes searched the semidarkness surrounding the long, noisy column for a glimpse of Stands With A Fist.

He couldn’t find her.

four

The lieutenant had mixed feelings about being back.

He knew the fort as his home, and that was reassuring. It was good to pull his boots off, lie down on the pallet, and stretch out unobserved. With half-closed eyes he watched the wick flicker in his lamp, and drifted lazily in the quiet surrounding the hut. Everything was in its place, and so was he.

Not many minutes had passed, however, before he realized his right foot was jiggling with aimless energy.

What are you doing? he asked himself as he stilled the foot. You’re not nervous.

It was only a minute more before he discovered the fingers of his right hand drumming impatiently at his chest.

He wasn’t nervous. He was bored. Bored and lonely.

In the past he would have reached for his cigarette fixings, made a smoke, and put himself to work puffing on it. But there was no more tobacco.

Might as well have a look at the river, he thought, and with that, got back into his boots and walked outside.

He stopped, thinking of the breastplate that was already so precious to him. It was draped over the army-issue saddle he’d brought from the supply house. He went back inside, intending only to look at it.

Even in the weak light of the lamp it was shining brilliantly. Lieutenant Dunbar ran his hand over the bones. They were like glass. When he picked it up there was a solid clacking as bone kissed bone. He liked the cool, hard feel of it on his bare chest.

The “look at the river” turned into a long walk. The moon was nearly full again and he didn’t need the lantern as he treaded lightly along the bluff overlooking the stream.

He took his time, pausing often to look at the river, or at a branch as it bent in the breeze, or at a rabbit nibbling at a shrub. Everything was unconcerned with his presence.

He felt invisible. It was a feeling he liked.

After almost an hour he turned around and started home. If someone had been there as he passed by, they would have seen that, for all his lightness of step and for all his attention to things other than himself, the lieutenant was hardly invisible.

Not during the times he stopped to look up at the moon. Then he would lift his head, turn his body full into the face of its magical light, and the breastplate would flash the brightest white, like an earthbound star.

five

An odd thing happened the next day.

He spent the morning and part of the afternoon trying to work around the place: re-sorting what was left of the supplies, burning a few useless items, finding a protective way to store the meat, and making some journal entries.

All of it was done with half a heart. He thought of shoring up the corral again but decided that he would just be manufacturing work for himself. He’d already made work for himself. It made him feel rudderless.

When the sun was well on its way down, he found himself wanting to take another stroll on the prairie. It had been a blistering day. Perspiration from doing his chores had soaked through his pants and produced patches of prickly heat on his upper thighs. He could see no reason why this unpleasantness should accompany his stroll. So, Dunbar walked onto the prairie without his clothes, hoping he might run into Two Socks.

Forsaking the river, he struck out across the immense grasslands which rippled in every direction with a life of its own.

The grass had reached the peak of its growth, in some places grazing his hip. Overhead the sky was filled with fleecy, white clouds that stood against the pure blue like cutouts.

On a little rise a mile from the fort he lay down in the deep grass. With a windbreak on all sides, he soaked up the last of the sun’s warmth and stared dreamily at the slow-moving clouds.

The lieutenant turned on his side to bake his back. When he moved in the grass, a sudden sensation swamped him, one he had not known for so long that at first he wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

The grass above rustled softly as the breeze moved through it. The sun lay on his backside like a blanket of dry heat. The feeling welled higher and higher and Dunbar surrendered to it.