Dances With Wolves

CHAPTER XX

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.

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.

“Correct,” he whispered loudly.

She turned away quickly then. But as she did, he heard the distinct sound of a giggle.

To stay any longer would have been useless. They had all the meat they could possibly carry. Just after dawn everything was packed, and the column was on the march by midmorning. with every travois piled high, the return trip took twice as long, and it was getting dark by the time they reached Fort Sedgewick.

A travois loaded with several hundred pounds of jerked meat was brought up and unloaded into the supply house. A flurry of goodbyes followed, and with Lieutenant Dunbar watching from the doorway of his sod hut, the caravan marched off for the permanent camp upstream.

Without forethought his eyes searched the semidarkness surrounding the long, noisy column for a glimpse of Stands With A Fist.

He couldn’t find her.

The lieutenant had mixed feelings about being back.

He knew the fort as his home, and that was reassuring. It was good to pull his boots off, lie down on the pallet, and stretch out unobserved. With half-closed eyes he watched the wick flicker in his lamp, and drifted lazily in the quiet surrounding the hut. Everything was in its place, and so was he.

Not many minutes had passed, however, before he realized his right foot was jiggling with aimless energy.

What are you doing? he asked himself as he stilled the foot. You’re not nervous.

It was only a minute more before he discovered the fingers of his right hand drumming impatiently at his chest.

He wasn’t nervous. He was bored. Bored and lonely.

In the past he would have reached for his cigarette fixings, made a smoke, and put himself to work puffing on it. But there was no more tobacco.

Might as well have a look at the river, he thought, and with that, got back into his boots and walked outside.

He stopped, thinking of the breastplate that was already so precious to him. It was draped over the army-issue saddle he’d brought from the supply house. He went back inside, intending only to look at it.

Even in the weak light of the lamp it was shining brilliantly. Lieutenant Dunbar ran his hand over the bones. They were like glass. When he picked it up there was a solid clacking as bone kissed bone. He liked the cool, hard feel of it on his bare chest.

The “look at the river” turned into a long walk. The moon was nearly full again and he didn’t need the lantern as he treaded lightly along the bluff overlooking the stream.

He took his time, pausing often to look at the river, or at a branch as it bent in the breeze, or at a rabbit nibbling at a shrub. Everything was unconcerned with his presence.

He felt invisible. It was a feeling he liked.

After almost an hour he turned around and started home. If someone had been there as he passed by, they would have seen that, for all his lightness of step and for all his attention to things other than himself, the lieutenant was hardly invisible.

Not during the times he stopped to look up at the moon. Then he would lift his head, turn his body full into the face of its magical light, and the breastplate would flash the brightest white, like an earthbound star.

An odd thing happened the next day.

He spent the morning and part of the afternoon trying to work around the place: re-sorting what was left of the supplies, burning a few useless items, finding a protective way to store the meat, and making some journal entries.

All of it was done with half a heart. He thought of shoring up the corral again but decided that he would just be manufacturing work for himself. He’d already made work for himself. It made him feel rudderless.

When the sun was well on its way down, he found himself wanting to take another stroll on the prairie. It had been a blistering day. Perspiration from doing his chores had soaked through his pants and produced patches of prickly heat on his upper thighs. He could see no reason why this unpleasantness should accompany his stroll. So, Dunbar walked onto the prairie without his clothes, hoping he might run into Two Socks.

Forsaking the river, he struck out across the immense grasslands which rippled in every direction with a life of its own.

The grass had reached the peak of its growth, in some places grazing his hip. Overhead the sky was filled with fleecy, white clouds that stood against the pure blue like cutouts.

On a little rise a mile from the fort he lay down in the deep grass. With a windbreak on all sides, he soaked up the last of the sun’s warmth and stared dreamily at the slow-moving clouds.

The lieutenant turned on his side to bake his back. When he moved in the grass, a sudden sensation swamped him, one he had not known for so long that at first he wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

The grass above rustled softly as the breeze moved through it. The sun lay on his backside like a blanket of dry heat. The feeling welled higher and higher and Dunbar surrendered to it.

His hand fell downward, and as it did, the lieutenant ceased to think. Nothing guided his action, no visions or words or memories. He was feeling, and nothing more.

When he was conscious again he looked to the sky and saw the earth turning in the movement of the clouds. He rolled onto his back, placed his arms straight against his sides in the manner of a corpse, and floated awhile on his bed of grass and earth.

Then he closed his eyes and napped for half an hour.

He tossed and turned that night, his mind flitting from one subject to the next as though it were checking a long succession of rooms for a place to rest. Every room was either locked or inhospitable until at last he came to the place that, in the back of his mind, he knew he was bound for all the time.

The room was filled with Indians.

The idea was so right that he considered making the trip to Ten Bears’s camp that instant. But it seemed too impetuous.

I’ll get up early, he thought. Maybe I’ll stay a couple of days this time. He woke with anticipation before dawn but steeled himself against getting up, resisting the idea of a headlong rush to the village. He wanted to go without rash expectations, and stayed in bed until it was light.

When he had everything on but his shirt, he picked it up and slid an arm through one of the sleeves. He paused then, staring through the hut’s window to assess the weather. It was already warm in the room, probably warmer outside.

It’s going to be a scorcher, he thought as he pulled the sleeve off his arm.

The breastplate was hanging on a peg now, and as he reached for it, the lieutenant realized that he’d wanted to wear it all along, regardless of the weather.

He packed the shirt away in a haversack, just in case.

Two Socks was waiting outside.

When he saw Lieutenant Dunbar come through the door he took two or three quick steps back, spun in a circle, sidestepped a few feet, and lay down, panting like a puppy.

Dunbar cocked his head quizzically.

“What’s got into you?”

The wolf lifted his head at the sound of the lieutenant’s voice. His look was so intent that it made Dunbar chuckle.

“You wanna go with me?”

Two Socks jumped to his feet and stared at the lieutenant, not moving a muscle.

“Well, c’mon then.”

Kicking Bird woke thinking of “Jun” down there at the white man’s fort.

“Jun.” What an odd name. He tried to think of what it might mean. Young Rider perhaps. Or Fast Rider. Probably something to do with riding.

It was good to have the season’s first hunt ended. With the buffalo come at last, the problem of food had been solved, and that meant he could return to his pet project with some regularity. He would resume it this very day.

The medicine man went to the lodges of two close advisers and asked if they wanted to ride down there with him. He was surprised at how eager they were to go, but took it as a good sign nonetheless. No one was afraid anymore. In fact, people seemed to be at ease with the white soldier. In the talk he’d heard the last few days there were even expressions of fondness for him.

Kicking Bird rode out of camp feeling especially good about the day to come. Everything had gone well with the early stages of his plan. The cultivation was finally complete. Now he could get down to the real business of investigating the white race.

Lieutenant Dunbar figured he’d made close to four miles. He had expected the wolf to be long gone at the two-mile mark. At three miles he’d really started to wonder. And now, at four miles, he was thoroughly stumped.

They’d entered a narrow, grassy depression wedged between two slopes, and the wolf was still with him. Never before had he followed so far.

The lieutenant scissored off Cisco’s back and stared out at Two Socks. In his customary way the wolf had stopped, too. As Cisco lowered his head to chomp at the grass Dunbar began to walk in Two Socks’s direction, thinking he would be pressured into withdrawing. But the head and ears peering above the grass didn’t move, and when the lieutenant finally came to a halt, he was no more than a yard away.

The wolf tilted his head expectantly but otherwise stayed motionless as Dunbar squatted.

“I don’t think you’re going to be welcome where I’m going,” he said out loud, as though he were chatting with a trusted neighbor.

He looked up at the sun. “It’s gonna be hot; why don’t you go on home?”

The wolf listened attentively, but still he did not move.

The lieutenant rocked to his feet.

“C’mon, Two Socks,” he said irritably, “go home.”

He made a shooing motion with his hands, and Two Socks scurried to one side.

He shooed again and the wolf hopped, but it was obvious that Two Socks had no intention of going home.

“All right then,” Dunbar said emphatically, “don’t go home. But stay. Stay right there.”

He punctuated this with a wag of his finger and made an about-face. He’d just completed his turn when he heard the howl. It wasn’t full-blown, but it was low and plaintive and definite.

A howl.

The lieutenant swung his head around and there was Two Socks, his muzzle pointed up, his eyes trained on Lieutenant Dunbar, moaning like a pouty child.

To an objective observer it would have been a remarkable display, but to the lieutenant, who knew him so well, it was simply the last straw.

“You go home!” Dunbar roared, and he charged at Two Socks. Like a son who has pushed his father too far, the wolf flattened his ears and gave ground, scooting away with his tail tucked.

At the same time Lieutenant Dunbar took off at a run in the opposite direction, thinking he would get to Cisco, gallop off at full tilt, and ditch Two Socks.

He was tearing through the grass, thinking of his plan, when the wolf came bounding happily alongside.

“You go home,” the lieutenant snarled, and veered suddenly at his pursuer. Two Socks hopped straight up like a scared rabbit, leaving his paws in the sudden panic to get away. When he came to ground the lieutenant was only a step behind. He reached out for the base of Two Socks’s tail and gave it a squeeze. The wolf shot ahead as if a firecracker had gone off under him, and Dunbar laughed so hard that he had to stop running.

Two Socks skittered to a halt twenty yards away and stared back over his shoulder with an expression of such embarrassment that the lieutenant couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

He gave him a wave of goodbye and, still chortling to himself, turned around to find that Cisco had wandered back the way they’d come, browsing at the choicest grass.

The lieutenant started into an easy trot, unable to keep from laughing at the image of Two Socks running from his touch.

Dunbar jumped wildly as something grabbed at his ankle and then let go. He spun back, ready to face the unseen attacker.

Two Socks was right there, panting like a fighter between rounds.

Lieutenant Dunbar stared at him for a few seconds.

Two Socks glanced casually in the direction of home, as if thinking the game might be coming to a close.

“All right then,” the lieutenant said gently, surrendering with his hands. “You can come, or you can stay. I don’t have any more time for this.”

It might have been a tiny noise or it might have been something on the wind. Whatever it was, Two Socks caught it. He whirled suddenly and stared up the trail with his hackles raised.

Dunbar followed suit and immediately saw Kicking Bird with two other men. They were close by, watching from the shoulder of a slope.

Dunbar waved eagerly and hollered, “Hello,” as Two Socks began to slink away.

Kicking Bird and his friends had been watching for some time, long enough to have seen the entire show. They had been greatly entertained. Kicking Bird also knew that he had witnessed something precious, something that had provided a solution to one of the puzzles surrounding the white man . . . the puzzle of what to call him.

A man should have a real name, he thought as he rode down to meet Lieutenant Dunbar, particularly when it is a white who acts like this one.

He remembered the old names, like The Man Who Shines Like Snow, and some of the new ones being bandied about, like Finds The Buffalo. None of them really fit. Certainly not Jun.

He felt certain that this was the right one. It suited the white soldier’s personality. People would remember him by this. And Kicking Bird himself, with two witnesses to back him up, had been present at the time the Great Spirit revealed it.

He said it to himself several times as he came down the slope. The sound of it was as good as the name itself.

Dances With Wolves.