Dances With Wolves

by Michael Blake

  Usually there was a lull following lunch, and she was pleased to find no one at the water’s edge. She took off her moccasins, walked onto a thick log that ran out like a pier, and, straddling it, dipped her feet into the cooling shallows.

  There was only a hint of breeze, but it was enough to blunt the day’s heat. She placed a hand on each thigh, relaxed her shoulders, and gazed at the slow-moving river with half-closed eyes.

  If he came for her now. If he looked at her with those strong eyes and laughed his funny laugh and said they were going. She would go right now, the where not mattering.

  Suddenly she remembered their first meeting, clear as if it were yesterday. Riding back, half-conscious, her blood all over him. She remembered the safety she had felt, his arm around her back, her face pressed against the strange-smelling fabric of his jacket.

  Now she was understanding what it meant. She understood that what she felt now was what she felt then. Then it had only been a seed, buried and out of sight, and she hadn’t known what it meant. But the Great Spirit knew. The Great Spirit had let the seed grow. The Great Spirit, in all its Great Mystery had encouraged the seed to life every step of the way.

  That feeling she had, that feeling of safety. She knew now that it was not the safety felt in the face of an enemy or a storm or an injury. It was not a physical thing at all. It was a safety she had felt in her heart. It had been there all along.

  The rarest of all things in this life has happened, she thought. The Great Spirit has brought us together.

  She was reeling with the wonder of how it had all come to pass when she heard a gentle lapping of water a few feet away.

  He was squatting on a little patch of beach, splashing water on his face in a slow, unhurried way. He looked at her, and without bothering to wipe at the water dripping down his face, he smiled just like a little boy.

  “Hello,” he said. “I was at the fort.”

  He said this as if they had been together all their lives. She replied in the same way.

  “I know.”

  “Can we make some talk?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I was waiting to do that.”

  Voices sounded in the distance, near the top of the trail.

  “Where should we go?” he asked.

  “I know a place.”

  She got quickly to her feet and, with Dances With Wolves a step or two behind, led him to the old side path she had taken the day Kicking Bird asked her to remember the white tongue.

  They walked in silence, surrounded by the soft plod of their footsteps, the rustling of willows, and the singing of the birds who infested the breaks.

  Inside, their hearts were pounding with the suspicion of what was about to happen and the suspense of where and when it would take place.

  The secluded clearing where she had recalled the past finally opened to them. Still silent, they sat down cross-legged in front of the big cottonwood that faced the river.

  They could not speak. All other sound seemed to stop. Everything was still.

  Stands With A Fist dipped her head and saw a rent in the seam of his trouser leg. His hand was resting there, halfway up his thigh.

  “They are torn,” she whispered, letting her fingers lightly touch the tear. Once her hand was there she could not move it. The little fingers lay together unmoving.

  As if guided by some outside force, their heads came together softly. Their fingers entwined. The touching was rapturous as sex itself. Neither could have retraced the sequence of how it happened, but a moment later they were sharing a kiss.

  It wasn’t a big kiss, just a brushing and then a slight pressing together of their lips.

  But it sealed the love between them.

  They placed their cheeks together, and as each nose filled with the smell of the other, they fell into a dream. In the dream they made love and when they had finished and were lying side by side beneath the big cottonwood, Dances With Wolves looked into her eyes and saw tears.

  He waited a long time, but she wouldn’t speak.

  “Tell me,” he whispered.

  “I’m happy,” she said. “I’m happy the Great Spirit has let me live this long.”

  “I have the same feeling,” he said, his eyes welling.

  She pressed tightly against him then and began to cry. He held her hard as she wept, unafraid of the joy that was running down her face.

  seven

  They made love all afternoon, having long talks in between. When shadows finally began to fall across the clearing, they sat up, both sensing they would be missed if they stayed much longer.

  They were watching the glint on the water when he said: “I talked to Stone Calf . . . I know why you ran off that day . . . the day I asked if you were married.”

  She rose up then and extended her hand. He took it and she pulled him to his feet.

  “I had a good life with him. He went away from me because you were coming. That is how I see it now.”

  She led him out of the clearing and they started back, clinging to each other as they walked. When they were within hearing of the faint voices calling from the village, they halted to listen. The main trail was just ahead.

  With a squeeze of their hands the lovers slipped intuitively into the willows, and as if it would help them get through the coming night of separation, they came together again, making it fast as a hurried good-bye kiss.

  A step or two more from the main path leading up to the village they stopped once more, and as they embraced, she whispered in his ear.

  “I’m in mourning and our people would not approve if they knew of our love. We must guard our love carefully until the time comes for all to see it.”

  He nodded his understanding, they hugged briefly, and she slipped through the undergrowth.

  Dances With Wolves waited in the willows for ten minutes and then followed. He was glad to find himself alone as he shuffled up the hill to the village.

  He went straight to his lodge and sat on his bed, staring through the lodge flap at what was left of the light, dreaming of their afternoon in front of the cottonwood.

  When it was dark he lay back on the thick robes and realized that he was exhausted. As he rolled over he discovered the smell of her lingering on one of his hands. Hoping it would stay all through the night, he drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  one

  The next few days were euphoric for Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist.

  There were constant smiles about their mouths, their cheeks were flush with romance, and no matter where they went, their feet seemed not to touch the ground.

  In the company of others they were discreet, being careful not to show any outward signs of affection. So geared were they for concealment that the language sessions were more businesslike than ever before. If they were alone in the lodge, they took the chance of holding hands, making love with their fingers. But that was as far as it went.

  They tried to meet secretly at least once a day, usually at the river. This they couldn’t help doing, but it took time to find absolute seclusion, and Stands With A Fist in particular fretted about being found out.

  Marriage was in their minds from the beginning. It was something they both wanted. And the sooner the better. But her widowhood was a major stumbling block. There was no prescribed period of mourning in the Comanche life way, and release could come only from the woman’s father. If she had no father, the warrior who was her primary provider would take on the responsibility. In Stands With A Fist’s case, she could look only to Kicking Bird for her release. He alone would determine when she was no longer a widow. And it might take a long time.

  Dances With Wolves tried to reassure his lover, telling her that things would work out and not to worry. But she did, anyway. During one fit of depression over this issue she proposed that they run away together. But he only laughed, and the idea was not brought up again.

  They took chances. Twice in the four days after their coming together at the ri
ver she left Kicking Bird’s lodge in the darkness of early morning and slipped unnoticed into Dances With Wolves’s tipi. There they would lie together until first light, whispering their conversations as they held each other naked under the robe.

  All in all they did as well as could be expected of two people who had surrendered completely to love. They were dignified and prudent and disciplined.

  And they fooled almost no one.

  Everyone in the camp who was old enough to know what love between a man and a woman looked like could see it in the faces of Stands With A Fist and Dances With Wolves.

  Most people could not find it in their hearts to condemn love, no matter what the circumstances. Those few who might have taken offense held their tongues for lack of proof. Most important, their attraction was no threat to the band at large. Even the older, conservative elements admitted to themselves that the potential union made sense.

  After all, they were both white.

  two

  On the fifth night after the meeting at the river, Stands With A Fist had to see him again. She had been waiting for everyone in Kicking Bird’s lodge to fall asleep. Long after the sounds of light snoring filled the tipi, she was waiting, wanting to make sure her leaving would go unnoticed.

  She had just realized that the smell of rain was strong in the air when sudden yapping of excited voices broke the stillness. The voices were loud enough to wake everyone, and seconds later they were throwing aside bedding to rush outside.

  Something had happened. The whole village was up. She hurried down the main avenue with a throng of other people, all of them heading for a big fire that seemed to be the center of attention. In the chaos she looked vainly for Dances With Wolves, but it wasn’t until she had pushed close to the fire that she could see him.

  As they sifted through the crowd to one another she noticed new Indians huddled by the fire. There were half a dozen of them. Several more men were sprawled on the ground, some of them dead, some of them horribly injured. They were Kiowas, longtime friends and hunting partners of the Comanche.

  The six men who were untouched were wild with fear. They were gesticulating anxiously, talking in signs to Ten Bears and two or three close advisers. The onlookers were hushed and expectant as they watched the Kiowa story unfold.

  She and Dances With Wolves had nearly closed the space between them when women began to scream. A moment later the assembly came to pieces as women and children ran for their lodges, careening into each other in their panic. Warriors were boiling around Ten Bears, and one word was coming from the mouths of everyone. It was rolling through the village in the same way that thunder had begun to tremble through the black skies overhead.

  It was a word that Dances With Wolves knew well, for he had heard it many times in conversations and stories.

  “Pawnee.”

  With Stands With A Fist at his side, he pressed closer to the warriors crowding around Ten Bears. She talked into his ear as they watched, telling him what had happened to the Kiowa.

  They had started out as a small group, less than twenty men, looking for buffalo about ten miles north of the Comanche camp. There they were hit by a huge Pawnee war party, at least eighty warriors, maybe more. They’d been attacked in the afterglow of sunset and none of them would have escaped were it not for darkness and a superior knowledge of the countryside.

  They’d covered the retreat as best they could, but with such a large army, it was only a matter of time before the Pawnee would locate this camp. It was possible they had moved into position even now. The Kiowas thought there would be a few hours at most to get ready. That there would be an attack, probably made at dawn, was a foregone conclusion.

  Ten Bears began giving orders that neither Stands With A Fist nor Dances With Wolves could hear. It was clear from the old man’s expression, however, that he was worried. Ten of the band’s most distinguished warriors were out with Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair. The men left behind were good fighters, but if there were eighty Pawnee coming, they would be dangerously outnumbered.

  The meeting around the fire broke up in a curious kind of anarchy, lesser warriors marching off in different directions behind the man they felt would best lead them.

  Dances With Wolves had an uneasy feeling. Everything seemed so disorganized. The thunder overhead was coming at closer intervals and rain seemed inevitable. It would help to cover the Pawnee approach.

  But it was his village now, and he dashed after Stone Calf with only one thought in mind.

  “I will follow you,” he said when he had caught up.

  Stone Calf eyed him grimly.

  “This will be a hard fight,” he said. “The Pawnee never come for horses. They come for blood.”

  Dances With Wolves nodded.

  “Get your weapons and come to my lodge,” the older warrior ordered.

  “I’ll get them,” Stands With A Fist volunteered, and with her dress hitched up around her calves, she took off at a run, leaving Dances With Wolves to follow Stone Calf.

  He was trying to calculate how many rounds he had for the rifle and his Navy revolver when he remembered something that stopped him in his tracks.

  “Stone Calf,” he shouted. “Stone Calf.”

  The warrior turned back to him.

  “I have guns,” Dances With Wolves blurted. “In the ground near the white man’s fort there are many guns.”

  They made an immediate about-face and returned to the fire.

  Ten Bears was still questioning the Kiowa hunters.

  The poor men, already half-crazed at the trauma of nearly losing their lives, shrank at the sight of Dances With Wolves, and it took some quick talking to get them calmed down.

  Ten Bears’s face jumped when Stone Calf told him there were guns.

  “What guns?” he asked anxiously.

  “White soldier guns . . . rifles,” answered Dances With Wolves.

  It was a hard decision for Ten Bears. Though he approved of Dances With Wolves, there was something in his old Comanche blood that didn’t fully trust the white man. The guns were in the ground and it would take them time to dig them up. The Pawnee might be close now and he needed every man to defend the village. There was the long ride to the white man’s fort to consider. And the rain would be coming any minute.

  But the fight was going to be a close one, and he knew that guns could make a big difference. Chances were the Pawnee didn’t have many. Dawn was still hours away, and there was enough time to make the round trip to the hair-mouth fort.

  “The guns are in boxes. . . . They are covered with wood,” Dances With Wolves said, interrupting his thoughts. “We will need only a few men and travois to bring them back.”

  The old man had to make the gamble. He told Stone Calf to take Dances With Wolves, along with two other men and six ponies, four for riding and two for carrying the guns. He told them to go quickly.

  three

  When he got to his lodge Cisco was bridled and standing in front. A fire was going inside and Stands With A Fist was squatting next to it, mixing something in a small bowl.

  His weapons, the rifle, the big Navy, the bow, the quiver stuffed with arrows, and the long-bladed knife, were laid out neatly on the floor.

  He was strapping on the Navy when she brought the bowl to him.

  “Give me your face,” she commanded.

  He stood still as she daubed at the red substance in the bowl with one of her fingers.

  “This is for you to do, but there is no time and you don’t know how. I will do it for you.”

  With fast, sure strokes, she drew a single horizontal bar across his forehead and two vertical ones along each cheek. Using a dot pattern, she superimposed a wolf’s paw print over one of the cheek bars and stepped back to look at her work.

  She nodded approval as Dances With Wolves slung the bow and quiver over his shoulder.

  “You can shoot?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Take this then.”
>
  He handed her the rifle.

  There were no hugs or words of good-bye.

  He stepped outside, jumped up on Cisco, and was gone.

  four

  They rode away from the river, taking the straightest line possible across the grasslands.

  The sky was terrifying. It seemed as though four storms were converging at once. Lightning was flashing all around them like artillery fire.

  They had to stop when one of the travois came loose from its rigging, and as it was being repaired, Dances With Wolves had a chilling thought. What if he couldn’t find the guns? He hadn’t seen the buffalo rib marker for a long time. Even if it was still standing where he’d driven it into the ground, it would be difficult to find. He groaned inwardly at his prospects.

  Rain was beginning to fall in big, heavy drops when they reached the fort. He led them to what he thought was the spot but could see nothing in the dark. He told them what to look for, and the quartet fanned out on their ponies, searching the tall grass for a long, white piece of bone.

  Rain was coming harder now, and ten minutes passed with no sign of the rib. The wind was up and lightning was flashing every few seconds. The light it threw across the ground was countered by the blinding effect it had on the searchers.

  After twenty dismal minutes Dances With Wolves’s heart had hit bottom. They were covering the same ground now and still there was nothing.

  Then, over the wind and rain and thunder, he thought he heard a cracking sound under one of Cisco’s hooves. Dances With Wolves called to the others and leaped down. Soon all four were on their hands and knees feeling blindly through the grass. Stone Calf suddenly jumped to his feet. He was waving a long, white piece of the rib.

  Dances With Wolves stood in the spot where it was found and waited for the next bolt of lightning. When the sky flashed again, he glanced quickly at the old buildings of Fort Sedgewick and, using them as a landmark, began moving in a northerly direction, going step by step,

  A few paces later the prairie went spongy under one of his boots, and he cried out to the others. The men dropped down to help him dig. The earth gave easily as they scooped and minutes later two long wooden cases of rifles were being hauled out of their muddy tomb.