Dances With Wolves

CHAPTER X

She’d been terrified the summer before, when it was discovered that white soldiers had come into the country. The band had never met the hair mouths, except for killing several on isolated occasions. She had hoped they would never meet them.

When the white soldiers’ horses were stolen late last summer, she had panicked and run off. She was sure the white soldiers would come to the village. But they didn’t.

Still, she was on pins and needles until it was determined that, without their horses, the white soldiers were practically helpless. Then she had been able to relax a little. But it wasn’t until they broke camp and were on the winter trail that the awful cloud of fear that followed her all summer finally lifted.

Now summer was on them again, and all along the trail from the winter camp she had prayed fiercely for the hair mouths to be gone. Her prayers had not been answered, and once again her days were troubled, hour by hour.

Her name was Stands With A Fist.

She alone, among all the Comanches, knew that the white man was not a god. The story of Kicking Bird’s encounter did puzzle her, however. A single naked white man? Out here? In the Comanche homeland? It didn’t make sense. But no matter. Without knowing precisely why, she knew he was not a god. Something old told her so.

She heard the story that morning, on her way to the once-a-month lodge, the one set aside for menstruating women. She’d been thinking of her husband. Normally she did not like going to the lodge because she would miss his company. He was wonderful, a brave, handsome, and altogether exceptional man. A model husband. She had never been struck by him, and though both their babies had died (one in childbirth, the other a few weeks later), he had stubbornly refused to take another wife.

People had urged him to take another wife. Even Stands With A Fist suggested it. But he said simply, “You are plenty,” and she had never spoken of it again. In her secret heart she was proud that he was with her alone.

She missed him terribly now. Before they broke winter camp he’d taken a large party against the Utes. Nearly a month had passed with no word of him or the other warriors. But because she was already cut off from him, going to the once-a-month lodge had not seemed as hard as usual. As she made ready to leave that morning, the young Comanche was comforted by the notion that a close friend or two would be sequestered with her, women with whom the time would pass easily.

But on her way to the lodge she heard of Kicking Bird’s odd story. Then she heard the story of the foolish raid. Stands With A Fist’s morning had exploded in her face. Once more a great dread had settled on her square straight shoulders like an iron blanket, and she entered the once-a-month lodge badly shaken.

But she was very strong. Her beautiful light brown eyes, eyes that with intelligence, revealed nothing as she sewed and chatted through the morning with her friends.

They knew the danger. The whole band knew. But it served no one to talk about it. So no one did.

All afternoon her tough, tiny frame moved about the lodge, showing nothing of the heavy blanket hanging over it.

Stands With A Fist was twenty-six years old.

For almost twelve of those years she had been a Comanche.

Before that she had been white.

Before that she had been . . . what was it?

She only thought of the name on the rare occasions when she could not avoid thinking about the whites. Then, for some inexplicable reason, it would pop up in front of her eyes.

Oh, yes, she thought in Comanche, I remember it. Before, I was Christine.

Then she would think of before, and it was always the same. It was like passing through an old, misty curtain and the two worlds became one, the old mingling with the new. Stands With A Fist was Christine and Christine was Stands With A Fist.

Her complexion had darkened over the years, and the whole of her appearance had a distinctly wild cast about it. But despite two full-term pregnancies, her figure was like that of a white woman. And her hair which refused to grow beyond her shoulders and refused to stay straight, still held a pronounced cherry tint. And, of course, there were the two light brown eyes.

Stands With A Fist’s great fear was well founded. She could never hope to escape it. To a white eye there would always be something strange about the woman in the once-a-month lodge. Something not altogether Indian. And to the knowing eyes of her own people there was something not altogether Indian, even after all this time.

It was a terrible, heavy burden, but Stands With A Fist never spoke of it, much less complained. She carried it silently and with great bravery through every day of her Indian life, and she carried it for one monumental reason.

Stands With A Fist wanted to stay where she was.

She was very happy.