Dances With Wolves dww-1

by Michael Blake

  They opened the men and women as if they were Christmas presents: shooting into their heads and lifting off the skull tops; slitting bellies with bayonets, then parting the skin with impatient hands; severing limbs and shaking them out.

  There was money inside every Indian. Silver poured from their limbs. Greenbacks spewed from their bellies. Gold sat in their skulls like candy in jars.

  The great army was drawing away in wagons piled high with riches. Some of the soldiers were running next to the wagons, scooping the overflow off the ground.

  Fighting broke out in the ranks of the army, and long after they had disappeared, the sound of their battling flashed on and off like lightning behind the mountains.

  One soldier was left behind, walking sad and dazed through the field of corpses.

  It was himself.

  The hearts of the dismembered people were still beating, drumming out in unison a cadence that sounded like music.

  He slipped a hand under his tunic and watched it rise and fall with the beat of his own heart. He saw his breath freezing in front of his face. Soon he would be frozen, too.

  He lay down among the corpses, and as he stretched out, a long, mournful sigh escaped his lips. Instead of fading, the sigh gained strength. It circled over the slaughtering ground, rushing faster and faster past his ears, moaning a message he could not understand.

  three

  Lieutenant Dunbar was cold to the bone.

  It was dark.

  Wind was whistling through the cleft.

  He jumped straight up, cracked his head against the ceiling of solid rock, and sank back to his knees. Blinking through the sting of the blow, he could see a silvery light shining through the cleft’s entrance. Moonlight.

  Panicked, Dunbar scrambled off in an apelike stoop, one hand held overhead to gauge the ceiling. When he could stand unimpeded he ran for the mouth of the cleft and didn’t slow until he was standing in the brilliant moonlight of the clearing.

  Cisco was gone.

  The lieutenant whistled high and shrill.

  Nothing.

  He walked farther into the clearing and whistled again. He heard something move in the cottonwoods. Then he heard a low nicker, and Cisco’s buckskin hide flashed like amber in the moonlight as he came out of the trees.

  Dunbar was going for the bridle he left at the spring when a movement flickered in the air. He looked back in time to glimpse the tawny form of a great horned owl as it swooped past Cisco’s head and went into a steep climb, finally vanishing in the branches of the tallest cottonwood.

  The owl’s flight was disturbingly eerie, and it must have had the same effect on Cisco, for when he reached him the little horse was trembling with fright.

  four

  They backtracked out of the canyon, and when they were on the open prairie again it was with the kind of relief a swimmer feels on coming to the surface after a long, deep dive.

  Lieutenant Dunbar shifted his weight slightly forward and Cisco was off, carrying him over the silvery grasslands at an easy gallop.

  He rode invigorated, thrilled to be awake and alive and putting distance between himself and the strange, unsettling dream. It didn’t matter where the dream had come from and it didn’t matter what it meant. The images were too fresh and too profound to rehash now. He spurned the hallucination in favor of other thoughts as he listened to the gentle pounding of Cisco’s hooves.

  A feeling of power was coming over him, increasing with each passing mile. He could feel it in the effortless movement of Cisco’s canter and he could feel it in the oneness of himself: oneness with his horse and the prairie and the prospect of returning whole to the village that was now his home. In the back of his mind he knew there would be a reckoning with Stands With A Fist and that the grotesque dream would have to be assimilated somewhere down the line of his future.

  For the moment, however, these things were small. They didn’t threaten him in the least, for he was charged with the notion that his life as a human being was suddenly a blank and that the slate of his history had been wiped clean. The future was as open as the day he was born, and it sent his spirits soaring. He was the only man on earth, a king without subjects, rambling across the limitless territory of his life.

  He was glad they were Comanches and not Kiowas, for he remembered their nickname now, heard or read somewhere in the dead past.

  The Lords of the Plains, that’s what they were called. And he was one of them.

  In a fit of reverie he dropped the reins and crossed his arms, laying each hand flat against the breastplate that covered his chest.

  “I’m Dances With Wolves,” he cried out loud, “I’m Dances With Wolves.”

  five

  Kicking Bird, Wind In His Hair, and several other men were sitting around the fire when he rode in that night.

  The medicine man had been worried enough to send out a small party to scout the four directions for the white soldier. But there was no general alarm. It was done quietly. They had come back with nothing to report, and Kicking Bird put the matter out of his mind. When it came to matters beyond his sphere of influence, he always trusted to the wisdom of the Great Spirit.

  He’d been more disturbed by what he saw in the face and manner of Stands With A Fist than he had been with the disappearance of Dances With Wolves. At the mention of his name he’d perceived a vague discomfort in her, as though she had something to hide.

  But this, too, he decided, was beyond his control. If something important had happened between them, it would be revealed at the proper time.

  He was relieved to see the buckskin horse and its rider coming up to the firelight.

  The lieutenant slid off Cisco’s back and greeted the men around the fire in Comanche. They returned the salutation and waited to see if he was going to say anything significant about his disappearance.

  Dunbar stood before them like an uninvited guest, twisting Cisco’s reins in his hands as he looked them over. Everyone could see his mind was working on something.

  After a few seconds his gaze fell squarely on Kicking Bird, and the medicine man thought he had never seen the lieutenant looking so calm and assured.

  Dunbar smiled then. It was a small smile, full of confidence.

  In perfect Comanche he said, “I’m Dances With Wolves.”

  Then he turned away from the fire and led Cisco down to the river for a long drink.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  one

  Ten Bears’s first council was inconclusive, but the day after Lieutenant Dunbar’s return another meeting was held, and this time a solid compromise was reached.

  Instead of leaving immediately, as the young men had wanted, the war party against the Pawnee would take a week to make necessary preparations. It was also decided that experienced warriors would be included.

  Wind In His Hair would lead and Kicking Bird would go along also, providing critical spiritual guidance on the practical matters of choosing campsites and times for attack as well as divining unforeseen omens, several of which were sure to appear. It was to be a small party of about twenty warriors and they would be looking for booty rather than revenge.

  There was great interest in this group because several of the young would be going out for the first time as full-fledged warriors, and the addition of such distinguished men to lead them produced enough excitement to upset the normally placid routine of Ten Bears’s camp.

  Lieutenant Dunbar’s routine, already altered by his strange day and night in the ancient canyon, was upset, too. With so much going on, the meetings in the brush arbor were constantly interrupted, and after two days of this, they were discontinued.

  Besieged as he was, Kicking Bird was happy to turn his full attention to planning for the raid. Stands With A Fist was glad for the cooling-off period, and so was Dances With Wolves. It was plain to him that she was making an extra effort to keep her distance, and he was relieved to see the sessions end for that reason if for no other.

  Preparati
ons for the war party intrigued him, and he shadowed Kicking Bird as much as he could.

  The medicine man seemed to be in touch with the entire camp, and Dances With Wolves was delighted to be included, even if it was only to observe. Though far from fluent, he was close now to the gist of what was being said and had become so proficient in sign language that Stands With A Fist was rarely called upon during the final days before the war party left.

  It was a first-rate education for the former Lieutenant Dunbar. He sat in on many meetings at which responsibilities were delegated to each member of the party with remarkable care and tact. Reading between the lines, he could see that, among Kicking Bird’s many outstanding qualities, none counted more than his ability to make each man feel he was a crucially important member of the coming expedition.

  Dances With Wolves also got to spend time with Wind In His Hair. Because Wind In His Hair had fought the Pawnee on many occasions, his stories of these encounters were in demand. In fact, they were vital to the preparation of the party’s younger men. Informal classes in warfare were conducted in and around Wind In His Hair’s lodge, and as the days sped by, Dances With Wolves became infected.

  The infection was low-grade at first, nothing more than idle reflections on what the warpath would be like. But eventually he was caught up with a strong desire to take the trail against the Comanches’ enemies.

  He waited patiently for opportune times when he could ask about going along. He had his chances, but the moments came and went without him finding his tongue. He was made shy by the fear of someone saying no.

  Two days before the party’s scheduled departure, a large herd of antelope was sighted near camp, and a group of warriors, including Dances With Wolves, rode out in search of meat.

  Using the same surrounding technique they had employed with the buffalo, the men were able to kill a great number of the animals, about sixty head.

  Fresh meat was always welcome, but more importantly, the appearance and successful hunting of the antelope was taken as a sign that the little war against the Pawnee would have a good result. The men going out would be made securer with the knowledge that their families wouldn’t be hard-pressed for food, even if they were gone several weeks.

  A dance of thanks was held the same evening, and everyone was in high spirits. Everyone but Dances With Wolves. As the night wore on he watched from a distance, growing more and more morose. He was thinking only of being left behind, and now he could not stand the thought.

  He maneuvered himself close to Stands With A Fist, and when the dance broke up, he was at her side.

  “I want to talk to Kicking Bird,” he said.

  Something was wrong, she thought. She read his eyes for clues but could find none.

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  two

  For some reason he couldn’t calm himself down. He was uncharacteristically nervous and fidgety, and as they walked to the lodge, both Stands With A Fist and Kicking Bird could see this.

  His anxiety was still evident when they had seated themselves in Kicking Bird’s tipi. The medicine man skated over the usual formalities and came quickly to the point.

  “Make your talk,” he said, speaking through Stands With A Fist.

  “I want to go.”

  “Go where?” she asked.

  Dances With Wolves shifted restlessly, working up his courage.

  “Against the Pawnee.”

  This was relayed to Kicking Bird. Except for a slight widening of his eyes, the medicine man seemed unfazed.

  “Why do you want to make war on the Pawnee?” he asked logically. “They have done nothing to you.”

  Dances With Wolves thought for a moment.

  “They are Comanche enemies.”

  Kicking Bird didn’t like it. There was something forced about the request. Dances With Wolves was rushing.

  “Only Comanche warriors can go on this ride,” he said flatly.

  “I have been a warrior in the white man’s army longer than some of the young men who are going have been apprentices. Some of them are making war for the first time.”

  “They have been taught in the Comanche way,” the medicine man said gently. “You have not. The white man’s way is not the Comanche way.”

  Dances With Wolves lost a little of his resolve then. He knew he was losing. His voice dropped.

  “I cannot learn the Comanche way of war if I stay in camp,” he said lowly.

  It was difficult for Kicking Bird. He wished it was not happening.

  His affection for Dances With Wolves was deep. The white soldier had been his responsibility, and the white soldier had shown himself to be worthy of the risks Kicking Bird had taken. He was more than worthy.

  On the other hand, the medicine man had risen to a high and revered position through the dedicated gathering of wisdom. He was wise now and was able to understand the world well enough to be of great service to his people.

  It was between affection for one man and service to his community that Kicking Bird was split. He knew it was no contest. All of his wisdom said it would be wrong to take Dances With Wolves.

  As he struggled with the question he heard Dances With Wolves say something to Stands With A Fist.

  “He asks that you talk to Ten Bears on this,” she said.

  Kicking Bird looked into the hopeful eyes of his protégé and hesitated.

  “I will do that,” he said.

  three

  Dances With Wolves slept poorly that night. He cursed himself for being too excited to sleep. He knew that no decision would be rendered until the next day, and tomorrow seemed too far away. He slept for ten minutes and woke for twenty all through the night. Half an hour before dawn he finally gave it up and went down to the river to bathe.

  The idea of waiting around camp for word was unbearable and he jumped at the chance when Wind In His Hair asked if he wanted to go on a buffalo scout. They ranged far to the east, and it was well into the afternoon before they were back in camp.

  He let Smiles A Lot take Cisco back to the pony herd and, with his heart beating wildly, stepped into Kicking Bird’s lodge.

  No one was there.

  He was determined to wait until someone returned, but through the back wall he could hear women’s voices mixed with the clatter of work, and the longer he listened, the less he could imagine what was going on. Not many minutes passed before curiosity drove him outside.

  Directly behind Kicking Bird’s home, a few yards from the arbor, he found Stands With A Fist and the medicine man’s wives putting the final touches on a newly erected lodge.

  They were stitching the last of the seams and he watched them work for a few moments before he spoke.

  “Where’s Kicking Bird?”

  “With Ten Bears,” she said.

  “I will wait for him,” said Dances With Wolves, turning to go.

  “If you want,” she said, not bothering to look up from her work, “you can wait in here.”

  She stopped to brush at the beads of sweat running along her temple and faced him.

  “We make this for you.”

  four

  The talk with Ten Bears didn’t last long, at least the substance of it didn’t.

  The old man was in a good mood. His long-suffering bones loved the hot weather, and though he wasn’t going, the prospects for a successful venture against the hated Pawnee delighted him. His grandchildren were round as butterballs from summer feasting, and all three of his wives had been especially cheerful of late.

  Kicking Bird could not have picked a better time to see him about a delicate matter.

  As the medicine man told him about Dances With Wolves’s request, Ten Bears listened impassively. He repacked his pipe before replying.

  “You have told me what is in his heart,” the old man wheezed. “What is in yours?”

  He offered Kicking Bird the pipe.

  “My heart says he is too anxious. He wants too much, too soon. He is a warrior
, but he is not a Comanche. He will not be a Comanche for a while.”

  Ten Bears smiled.

  “You always speak well, Kicking Bird. And you see it well.’

  The old fellow lit the pipe and passed it over.

  “Now tell me,” he said, “what is it that you would like my advice on?”

  five

  It was a terrible letdown at first. The only thing he could compare it to was a reduction in rank. But it was more disappointing than that. He had never been so disappointed.

  And yet he was shocked at how quickly the hurt of it passed. It was gone almost as soon as Kicking Bird and Stands With A Fist left the lodge.

  He lay on the new bed in his new home and wondered about this change. It had only been minutes since he got the word, but he wasn’t crushed at all now. It was a tiny disappointment now. It’s something to do with being here, he thought, being with these people. It’s something to do with being unspoiled. Kicking Bird had done everything very precisely. He came trailed by the two women carrying robes, Stands With A Fist and one of his wives.

  After they’d made up the new bed the wife had departed, and the three, Kicking Bird, Stands With A Fist, and Dances With Wolves, had stood facing one another in the center of the tipi.

  Kicking Bird never made mention of the raid or the decision that had gone against him. He just started talking.

  “It would be good if you make talk with Stands With A Fist while I’m gone. You should do this in my lodge so that my family can see. I want them to know you while I’m gone and I want you to know them. I will feel better to know that you are looking after my family while I’m away. Come to my fire and eat if you are hungry.”

  Once the invitation to dinner was made, the medicine man turned abruptly and left, Stands With A Fist following him.