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.
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, h
er 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.
CHAPTER XX
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 teenager 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.
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