Dances With Wolves (27 page)

It was twilight when he regained consciousness. His head was throbbing so hard that he didn’t notice at first. At first, he only heard a light rattle when he moved. Then he felt the cold metal. His hands were chained together. He moved his feet. They were chained, too.

When the major and lieutenant came back with more questions, he answered them with a killing glare and spat out a long string of Comanche insults. Each time they asked him something, he answered in Comanche. Finally, they tired of this and left him.

Later in the evening, the big sergeant placed a bowl of gruel before him.

Dances With Wolves kicked it over with his manacled feet.

six

Kicking Bird’s scouts brought the dreadful news in around midnight. They had counted more than sixty heavily armed soldiers at the white man’s fort. They had seen the buckskin horse lying dead on the slope. And just before dark they had seen Dances With Wolves being led to the bluff by the river, his feet and hands in chains. The band went into evasive action immediately. They packed up their things and marched out at night, little groups of a dozen or less, heading in all different directions. They would rendezvous days later in the winter camp.

Ten Bears knew he would never hold them back, so he didn’t try. A force of twenty warriors, Kicking Bird and Stone Calf and Wind In His Hair among them, left within the hour, promising not to engage the enemy unless they could be sure of success.

seven

Major Hatch made his decision late the same night. He didn’t want to be bothered with the thorny problem of a savage, half-Indian white man sitting under his nose. The major was not a visionary thinker, and from the first he’d been baffled and afraid of his exotic prisoner.

It didn’t occur to the shortsighted officer that he could have used Dances With Wolves to great advantage as a bargaining tool. He wanted only to get rid of him. His presence had already unsettled the command.

Shipping him back to Fort Hays seemed a brilliant idea. As a prisoner, he would be worth much more to the major back there than out here. The capture of a turncoat would stand him in very good stead with the top brass. The army would talk about this prisoner, and if they talked about the prisoner, the name of the man who caught him was bound to come up just as often.

The major blew out his lamp and pulled up his covers with a self-satisfied yawn. Everything was going to work out nicely, he thought. The campaign couldn’t have asked for a better beginning.

eight

They came for the prisoner early the next morning.

Sergeant Murphy had two men pull Dances With Wolves to his feet and asked the major, “Should we put him in uniform, sir, spruce him up some?”

“Of course not,” the major said sharply. “Now, get him in the wagon.”

Six men were detailed for the trip back: two on horseback up front, two on horseback in the rear, one to drive, and one to guard the prisoner in the wagon bed.

They went due east, across the rolling prairie he loved so much. But on this bright morning in October there was no love in Dances With Wolves’s heart. He said nothing to his captors, preferring to bump along in the back of the wagon, listening to the steady clank of his chains as his mind considered the possibilities.

There was no way to overpower the escort. He might be able to kill one, or perhaps even two. But they would kill him after that. He thought of trying it anyway. To die fighting these men would not be so bad. It would be better than landing in some dismal jail.

Every time he thought of her, his heart would begin to crack. When her face would start to form as a picture in his head, he forced himself to think of something else. He had to do this every few minutes. It was the worst kind of agony.

He doubted that anyone would be coming after him. He knew they would want to, but he could not imagine that Ten Bears would compromise the safety of all his people for the sake of a single man. Dances With Wolves himself would not do that.

On the other hand, he felt certain they had sent out scouts and that they knew by now of his desperate situation. If they’d hung around long enough to see him leave in the wagon, with only six men to guard him, there might be a chance.

As the morning dragged on, Dances With Wolves clung to this idea as his only hope. Each time the wagon slowed to gain a rise or lurched down into a draw, he held himself breathless, wishing for the swish of an arrow or the crack of a rifle.

By midday, he had heard nothing.

They’d been away from the river for a long time, but it was coming up again. Searching for a place to ford, they followed it for a quarter mile before the soldiers up front found a well-traveled buffalo crossing.

The water wasn’t wide, but the breaks around the river were exceptionally thick, thick enough for an ambush. As the wagon creaked down the incline, Dances With Wolves kept his eyes and ears open.

The sergeant in charge called for the driver to stop before they entered the stream, and they waited as the sergeant and another man crossed over. For a long minute or two, they probed the breaks. Then the sergeant cupped his hands and called for the wagon to come along.

Dances With Wolves clenched his fists and shifted to a squatting position. He could see nothing and he could hear nothing.

But he knew they were there.

He was moving at the sound of the first arrow, far faster than the guard in the wagon, who was still fumbling with his rifle as Dances With Wolves looped the hand chain around the man’s neck.

Rifle fire exploded behind him and he yanked the chain taut, feeling the flesh beneath it give as the soldier’s throat caved in.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the sergeant tumble forward off his horse, an arrow deep in the small of his back. The wagon driver had jumped over the side. He was knee-deep in water, firing wildly with a pistol.

Dances With Wolves landed on top of him and they grappled briefly in the water before he could work himself free. Using the chain like a two-handed whip, he lashed at the driver’s head and the soldier turned limp, rolling slowly in the shallow water. Dances With Wolves gave him more vicious whacks, stopping only when he saw the water turning red.

There was yelling downstream. Dances With Wolves looked up in time to see the last of the troopers trying to escape. He must have been wounded because he was flopping loosely in the saddle.

Wind In His Hair was right behind the doomed soldier. As their horses came together, Dances With Wolves heard the dull thud of Wind In His Hair’s skull cracker as it crushed the man’s head.

Behind him it was quiet, and when he turned he saw the men of the rear guard sprawled dead in the water.

Several warriors were jabbing lances into the bodies, and he was overjoyed to see that one of them was Stone Calf.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and Dances With Wolves spun into the beaming face of Kicking Bird.

“What a great fight,” the medicine man crowed. “We got them all so easy and no one’s hurt.”

“I got two,” Dances With Wolves yelled back. He lifted his chained hands into the air and cried out, “With these.”

The rescue party didn’t waste any time. After a frantic search, they found the keys to Dances With Wolves’s chains on the body of the dead sergeant.

Then they jumped on their ponies and galloped away, taking a course that swung many miles to the south and west of Fort Sedgewick.

one

An inch of early snow fell fortuitously on Ten Bears’s fleeing people, covering their tracks all the way to the winter camp.

Everyone made excellent time, and six days later the splinter groups had reunited on the bottom of the mammoth canyon that would be their home for several months.

The place was steeped in Comanche history and was aptly named The Great Spirit Steps Here. The canyon was miles long, a mile wide in most places, and some of its sheer walls ran half a mile from top to bottom. They had spent the winter here for as long as most people could remember, and it was a perfect spot, providing forage and plenty of water for the people and ponies and ample protection from the blizzards that raged overhead all winter. It was also far from the reach of their enemies.

Other bands passed the winter here, too, and there was great rejoicing as old friends and relatives saw each other again for the first time since spring.

Once they had reassembled, however, Ten Bears’s village settled in to wait, unable to rest easy until the fate of the rescue party was known.

At midmorning on the day after their return a scout thundered into camp with the news that the party was coming down the trail. He said that Dances With Wolves was with them.

Stands With A Fist sprinted up the trail ahead of everyone. She was crying as she ran, and when she caught sight of the horsemen, riding single file high on the trail above, she called his name.

She didn’t stop calling it until she had reached him.

two

The early snow was the prelude for a fearsome blizzard that struck that afternoon.

People stayed close to their lodges for the next two days.

Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist saw almost no one.

Kicking Bird did the best he could for Dances With Wolves’s face, taking down the swelling and trying to speed its recovery with healing herbs. There was nothing to be done with the fragile, shattered cheekbone, however, and it was left to mend on its own.

Dances With Wolves wasn’t concerned with his injury at all. A heavier matter was hard upon him, and in struggling with it, he was not inclined to see anyone.

He talked only to Stands With A Fist, but not much was said. Most of the time he lay in the lodge like a sick man. She lay with him, wondering what was wrong but waiting for him to tell her, as she knew he eventually would.

The blizzard had begun its third day when Dances With Wolves went for a long, solitary walk. When he returned he sat her down and told her of his irreversible decision.

She turned away from him then and sat for almost an hour, her head bowed in silent contemplation.

Finally she said, “This is the way it must be?” Her eyes were glistening with sadness.

Dances With Wolves was sad, too.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

She sighed mournfully, fighting back her tears.

“Then it will be.”

three

Dances With Wolves asked for a council. He wanted to speak with Ten Bears. He also asked for Kicking Bird, Wind In His Hair, Stone Calf, and anyone else Ten Bears thought should attend.

They met the next night. The blizzard was tailing off and everyone was in good spirits. They ate and smoked their way through a lively set of preliminaries, telling animated stories about the fight at the river and the rescue of Dances With Wolves.

He waited through all this with good humor. He was happy to be with his friends.

But when the conversation finally started to wane he took the first silence and filled it.

“I want to tell you what is on my mind,” he said, and the council officially began.

The men knew that something important was coming and they were at their most attentive. Ten Bears turned his best ear toward the speaker, not wanting to miss a single word.

“I have not been among you for very long, but I feel in my heart that it has been all my life. I’m proud to be a Comanche. I will always be proud to be a Comanche. I love the Comanche way and I love each of you as if we were of the same blood. In my heart and spirit I will always be with you. So you must know that it is hard for me to say that I must leave you.”

The lodge erupted with startled exclamations, each man furious with disbelief. Wind In His Hair jumped to his feet and stomped back and forth, waving his hands in scorn for this foolish idea.

Dances With Wolves sat still through the uproar.

He stared into the fire, his hands folded quietly in his lap.

Ten Bears held up a hand and told the men to stop talking. The lodge became silent again.

Wind In His Hair was still prowling about, however, and Ten Bears barked at him.

“Come and sit down, Wind In His Hair. Our brother is not finished.”

Grudgingly Wind In His Hair complied, and when he was seated, Dances With Wolves continued.

“Killing those soldiers at the river was a good thing. It made me free and my heart was filled with joy to see my brothers coming to help me.

“I did not mind killing those men at all. I was glad to do it.

“But you do not know the white mind as I do. The soldiers think I’m one of them who has gone bad. They think I have betrayed them. In their eyes I’m a traitor because I have chosen to live among you. I do not care if they are right or wrong, but I tell you truly that this is what they believe.

“White men will hunt a traitor long after they have given up on other men. To them a traitor is the worst thing a soldier can be. So they will hunt me until they find me. They will not give up.

“When they find me they will find you. They will want to hang me and they will want the same kind of punishment for you. Maybe they will punish you even if I’m gone. I don’t know.

“If it was just ourselves, I might stay, but it is more than just us men. It is your wives and your children and those of your friends. It is all the people who will be hurt.

“They cannot find me among you. That is all. That is why I must go. I have told Stands With A Fist about this and we will go together.”

No one stirred for many seconds. They all knew he was right, but no one knew what to say.

“Where will you go?” Kicking Bird finally asked.

“I don’t know. Far away. Far from this country.”

Again there was silence. It was at its most unbearable when Ten Bears coughed lightly.

“You have spoken well, Dances With Wolves. Your name will be alive in the hearts of our people for as long as there are Comanches. We will see that it is kept alive. When will you go?”

“When the snow breaks,” Dances With Wolves said softly.

“The snow will break tomorrow,” Ten Bears said. “We should go to sleep now.”

four

Ten Bears was an extraordinary man.

He had beaten the odds against longevity on the plains, and with each succeeding season of his life the old man had built a remarkable store of knowledge. This knowledge had grown until at last it collapsed inward upon itself, and in the dusk of his life Ten Bears had reached a pinnacle. . . . He had become a man of wisdom.

The old eyes were failing, but in the dimness they saw with a clarity that no one, not even Kicking Bird, could match. His hearing was muted, but somehow the sounds that mattered never failed to reach his ears. And lately, a most extraordinary thing had begun to happen. Without relying on the senses that were now beginning to play out, Ten Bears had actually begun to feel the life of his people. From boyhood he had been vested with a special shrewdness, but this was much more. This was seeing with his whole self, and instead of feeling old and used up, Ten Bears was invigorated by the strange and mysterious power that had come to him.

But the power that was so long in coming and seemed so infallible had broken. For two full days after the council with Dances With Wolves the headman sat in his lodge and smoked, wondering what had gone wrong.

“The snow will break tomorrow.”

The words had not been measured. They had come to him without forethought, appearing on his tongue as if placed there by the Great Spirit Himself.

But the snow had not stopped. The storm had gained strength. At the end of two days the drifts were high against the hide walls of all the tipis. They were getting higher by the hour. Ten Bears could feel them inching up the walls of his own lodge.

His appetite vanished and the old man ignored everything but his pipe and fire. He spent every waking minute staring into the flames that waved in the center of his home. He beseeched the Great Spirit to take pity on an old man and grant one last bit of understanding, but it was all to no avail.

At last Ten Bears began to think of his miscalculation as a sign. He began to think it was a call to end his life. It was only when he was fully resigned to the idea and had begun to rehearse his death song that something fantastic happened.

The old woman who had been his wife all through the years saw him rise suddenly from the fire, drape himself with a robe, and start out of the lodge. She asked where he was going, but Ten Bears made no reply. In fact, he had not heard her. He was listening to a voice that had come into his head. The voice uttered a single sentence and Ten Bears was obeying its command.

The voice said, “Go to the lodge of Dances With Wolves.”

Oblivious to his effort, Ten Bears struggled through the drifting snow. When he reached the lodge at the edge of camp he hesitated before knocking.

There was no one about. The snow was falling in large flakes, wet and heavy. As he waited Ten Bears thought he could hear the snow, thought he could hear each flake as it fell to earth. The sound was heavenly, and standing in the chill, Ten Bears felt his head begin to spin. For a few moments he thought he had passed into the beyond.

A hawk screamed, and when he looked for the bird, he saw lively smoke curling out of the hole in Dances With Wolves’s lodge. He blinked the snow from his eyes and scratched at the flap.

When it opened, a great wall of warmth rushed to meet him. It wrapped itself around the old man, sucked him past Dances With Wolves, and ushered him into the lodge like a living being. He stood in the center of the home and felt his head begin to spin again. Now it was spinning with relief, for in the time it took to go from the outside to the inside, Ten Bears had solved the mystery of his mistake.

The mistake was not his. It had been made by another and had slipped past without his seeing it. Ten Bears had merely compounded the mistake when he said, “The snow will break tomorrow.”

The snow was right. He should have listened to the snow in the first place. Ten Bears smiled and gave his head a toss. How simple it was. How could he have missed it? I still have some things to learn, he thought.

The man who made the error was standing next to him now, but Ten Bears felt no anger toward Dances With Wolves. He only smiled at the puzzlement he saw on the young man’s face.

Dances With Wolves found enough of his tongue to say, “Please . . . sit at my fire.”

When Ten Bears settled himself he gave the lodge a brief inspection, and it confirmed what his spinning head had told him. It was a happy, well-ordered home. He spread his robe, letting more of the fire’s heat inside.

“This is a nice fire,” he said genially. “At my age a good fire is better than anything.”

Stands With A Fist placed a bowl of food next to each man, then retreated to her bedside at the back of the lodge. There she picked up some sewing. But she kept an ear turned to the conversation that was sure to come.

The men ate in silence for a few minutes, Ten Bears chewing his food carefully. Finally he pushed his bowl to one side and coughed lightly.

“I’ve been thinking since you spoke at my lodge. I wondered how your bad heart was doing and thought I would see for myself.”

He scanned the lodge. Then he looked squarely at Dances With Wolves.

“This place doesn’t seem so bad-hearted.”

“Uhhh, no,” Dances With Wolves stammered. “Yes, we are happy here.”

Ten Bears smiled and nodded his head. “That’s how I thought it would be.”

A silence came between the men. Ten Bears stared into the flames, his eyes closing gradually. Dances With Wolves waited politely, not knowing what to do. Perhaps he should ask if the old man wanted to lie down. He had been walking in the snow. But now it looked too late to say that. His important guest seemed to be dozing already.

Ten Bears shifted and spoke, saying the words in a way that made it seem like he was talking in his sleep.

“I have been thinking about what you said . . . what you said about your reasons for going away.”

Suddenly his eyes flew open and Dances With Wolves was startled by their brightness. They were glittering like stars.

“You can go away from us anytime you like . . . but not for those reasons. Those reasons are wrong. All the hair-mouth soldiers in the world could search our camp and none would find the person they are looking for, the one like them who calls himself Loo Ten Nant.”

Ten Bears spread his hands slightly and his voice shook with glee. “The one called Loo Ten Nant is not here. In this lodge they will only find a Comanche warrior, a good Comanche warrior and his wife.”

Dances With Wolves let the words sink in. He peeked over his shoulder at Stands With A Fist. He could see a smile on her face; but she was not looking his way. There was nothing he could say.

When he looked back he found Ten Bears staring down at a nearly finished pipe that was poking out of its case. The old man pointed a bony finger at the object of his interest.

“You are making a pipe, Dances With Wolves?”

“Yes,”

Ten Bears held out his hands and Dances With Wolves placed the pipe in them. The old man brought it close to his face, running his eyes up and down its length.

“This might be a pretty good pipe. . . . How does it smoke?”

“I don’t know,” Dances With Wolves replied. “I haven’t tried it yet.”

“Let’s smoke it a while,” Ten Bears said, handing the pipe back. “It’s good to pass the time this way.”