Dances With Wolves

CHAPTER XXII

Dances With Wolves stayed in Kicking Bird’s lodge that night. He was exhausted but, as sometimes happens, was too tired to sleep. The day’s events hopped about in his mind like popcorn in a skillet.

When he finally began the drift into unconsciousness, the lieutenant slipped into the twilight of a dream he had not had since he was very young. Surrounded by stars, he was floating through the cold, silent void of space, a weightless little boy alone in a world of silver and black.

But he was not afraid. He was snug and warm and under the covers of a four-poster bed, and to drift like a single seed in all the universe, even if for eternity, was not a hardship. It was a joy.

That was how he fell asleep on his first night in the Comanches’ ancestral summer camp.

In the months that followed, Lieutenant Dunbar would fall asleep many times in Ten Bears’s camp.

He returned to Fort Sedgewick often, but the visits were prompted primarily by guilt, not desire. Even while he was there he knew he was maintaining the thinnest of appearances. Yet he felt compelled to do so.

He knew there was no logical reason to stay on. Certain now that the army had abandoned the post and him along with it, he thought of returning to Fort Hays. He had already done his duty. In fact, his devotion to the post and the U.S. Army had been exemplary. He could leave with his head held high.

What held him was the pull of another world, a world he had just begun to explore. He didn’t know exactly when it happened, but it came to him that his dream of being posted on the frontier, a dream that he had concocted to serve the small boundaries of military service, had pointed from the beginning to the limitless adventure in which he was now engaged. Countries and armies and races paled beside it. He had discovered a great thirst and he could no more turn it down than a dying man could refuse water.

He wanted to see what would happen, and because of that, he gave up his idea of returning to the army. But he did not fully give up the idea of the army returning to him. Sooner or later it had to.

So on his visits to the fort he would putter about with trivialities: repairing an occasional tear in the awning, sweeping cobwebs from the corners of the sod hut, making journal entries.

He forced these jobs on himself as a far fetched way of staying in touch with his old life. Deeply involved as he was with the Comanches, he could not find it in himself to jettison everything, and the hollow motions he went through made it possible to hang on to the shreds of his past.

By visiting the fort on a semiregular basis, he preserved discipline where there was no longer a need, and in doing so he also preserved the idea of Lieutenant John J. Dunbar, U.S.A.

The journal entries no longer carried depictions of his days. Most of them were nothing more than an estimate of the date, a short comment on the weather or his health, and a signature. Even had he wanted, it would have been too large a job to essay the new life he was living. Besides, it was a personal thing.

Invariably he would walk down the bluff to the river, usually with Two Socks in tow. The wolf had been his first real contact, and the lieutenant was always glad to see him. Their silent time together was something he cherished.

He would pause for a few minutes at the stream’s edge, watching the water flow. If the light was right, he could see himself with mirrorlike clarity. His hair had grown past his shoulders. The constant beating of sun and wind had darkened his face. He would turn from side to side, like a man of fashion, admiring the breastplate that he now wore like a uniform. With the exception of Cisco, nothing he could call his own exceeded its value.

Sometimes the vision on the water would make him tingle with confusion. He looked so much like one of them now. When that happened he would balance awkwardly on one foot and lift the other high enough for the water to send back a picture of the pants with the yellow stripes and the tall, black riding boots.

Occasionally he would consider discarding them for leggings and moccasins, but the reflection always told him that they belonged. In some way they were a part of the discipline, too. He would wear the pants and boots until they disintegrated. Then he would see.

On certain days, when he felt more Indian than white, he would trudge back over the bluff, and the fort would appear as an ancient place, a ghostly relic of a past so far gone that it was difficult to believe he was ever connected to it.

As time passed, going to Fort Sedgewick became a chore. His visits were fewer and farther between. But he continued making the ride to his old haunt.

Ten Bears’s village became the center of his life, but for all the ease with which he settled into it, Lieutenant Dunbar moved as a man apart. His skin and accent and pants and boots marked him as a visitor from another world, and like Stands With A Fist, he quickly became a man who was two people.

His integration into Comanche life was constantly tempered with the vestiges of the world he had left behind, and when Dunbar tried to think of his true place in life, his gaze would suddenly become faraway. A fog, blank and inconclusive, would fill his mind, as if all his normal processes had been suspended. After a few seconds the fog would lift and he would go about his business, not knowing quite what had hit him.

Thankfully, these spells subsided as time went on.

The first six weeks of his time in Ten Bears’s camp revolved around one particular place: the little brush arbor behind Kicking Bird’s lodge.

It was here, in daily morning and afternoon sessions lasting several hours each, that Lieutenant Dunbar first conversed freely with the medicine man.

Stands With A Fist made steady progress toward fluency, and by the end of the first week the three of them were having long-running talks. The lieutenant had thought all along that Kicking Bird was a good person, but when Stands With A Fist began to translate large blocks of his thoughts into English, Dunbar discovered he was dealing with an intelligence that was superior by any standard he knew.

In the beginning there were mostly questions and answers. Lieutenant Dunbar told the story of how he came to be at Fort Sedgewick and of his unexplained isolation. Interesting as the story was, it frustrated Kicking Bird. Dances With Wolves knew almost nothing. He did not even know the army’s mission, much less its specific plans. Of military things there was nothing to learn. He had been a simple soldier.

The white race was a different matter.

“Why are the whites coming into our country?” Kicking Bird would ask.

And Dunbar would reply, “I don’t think they want to come into the country, I think they only want to pass through.”

Kicking Bird would counter, “The Texans are already in our country, chopping down the trees and tearing up the earth. They are killing the buffalo and leaving them in the grass. This is happening now. There are too many of these people already. How many more will be coming?”

Here the lieutenant would twist his mouth and say, “I don’t know.”

“I have heard it said,” the medicine man would continue, “that the whites only want peace in the country. Why do they always come with hair-mouth soldiers? Why do these hair-mouth Texas Rangers come after us when all we want is to be left alone? I have been told of talks the white chiefs have had with my brothers. I have been told these talks are peaceful and that promises are made. But I am told that the promises are always broken. If white chiefs come to see us, how shall we know their true minds? Should we take their presents? Should we sign their papers to show that there will be peace between us? When I was a boy many Comanches went to a house of law in Texas for a big meeting with white chiefs and they were shot dead.”

The lieutenant would try to provide reasoned answers to Kicking Bird’s questions, but they were weak theories at best, and when pressed, he would inevitably end by saying, “I don’t know actually.”

He was being careful, for he could see the deep concern behind Kicking Bird’s queries and could not bring himself to tell what he really thought. If the whites ever came out here in real force, the Indian people, no matter how hard they fought, would be hopelessly overmatched. They would be defeated by armaments alone.

At the same time he could not tell Kicking Bird to disregard his concerns. He needed to be concerned. The lieutenant simply could not tell him the truth. Nor could he tell the medicine man lies. It was a standoff, and finding himself cornered, Dunbar hid behind a wall of ignorance, hoping for the arrival of new, more palatable subjects.

But each day, like a stain that refuses to be washed out, one overriding question always remained.

“How many more are coming?”

Gradually Stands With A Fist began to look forward to the hours she spent in the brush arbor.

Now that he had been accepted by the band, Dances With Wolves ceased to be the great problem he had once been. His connection with white society had paled, and while what he represented was still a fearful thing, the soldier himself was not. He didn’t even look like a soldier anymore.

At first the notoriety surrounding activities in the arbor bothered Stands With A Fist. The schooling of Dances With Wolves, his presence in camp, and her key role as go-between were constant topics of conversation around the village. The celebrity of it made her feel uneasy, as though she was being watched. She was especially sensitive to the possibility of criticism for shirking the routine duties expected of every Comanche woman. It was true that Kicking Bird himself had excused her, but she still worried.

After two weeks, however, none of these fears had materialized, and the new respect she enjoyed was having a beneficial effect on her personality. Her smile was quicker and her shoulders were squarer. The importance of her new role charged her step with a sense of authority that everyone could see. Her life was becoming bigger, and inside herself she knew it was a good thing.

Other people knew it, too.

She was gathering wood one evening when a woman friend stooping next to her suddenly said with a touch of pride: “People are talking about you.”

Stands With A Fist straightened, unsure of how to take the remark.

“What are they saying?” she asked flatly.

“They say that you are making medicine. They say that maybe you should change your name.”

“To what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the friend replied. “Medicine Tongue maybe, something like that. It’s just some talk.”

As they walked together in the twilight Stands With A Fist rolled this around in her head. They were at the edge of camp before she spoke again.

“I like my name,” she said, knowing that word of her wishes would quickly filter through camp. “I will keep it.”

A few nights later she was returning to Kicking Bird’s tipi after relieving herself when she heard someone start to sing in a lodge close by. She paused to listen and was astounded at what she heard.

“The Comanches have a bridge

That passes to another world

The bridge is called Stands With A Fist.”

Too embarrassed to hear more, she hurried along to bed. But as she tucked the covers under her chin, she was not thinking bad thoughts about the song. She was thinking only of the words she had heard, and on reflection, they seemed quite good.

She slept deeply that night. It was already light when she woke the next morning. Scrambling to catch up with the day, she hurried out of the lodge and stopped short.

Dances With Wolves was riding out of camp on the little buckskin horse. It was a sight that made her heart sink a little further than she might have imagined. The thought of him going did not disturb her so much, but the thought of him not coming back deflated her to the extent that it showed on her face.

Stands With A Fist blushed to think that someone might see her like this. She glanced around quickly and turned a brighter shade of red.

Kicking Bird was watching her.

Her heart beat wildly as she struggled to compose herself. The medicine man was coming over.

“There will be no talk today,” he said, studying her with a care that made her insides squirm.

“I see,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral.

But she could see curiosity in his eyes, curiosity that called for an explanation.

“I like to make the talk,” she went on. “I am happy to make the white words.”

“He wants to see the white man’s fort. He will come back at sundown.”

The medicine man gave her another close look and said. “We will make more talk tomorrow.”

Her day passed minute by minute.

She watched the sun like a bored office worker watches each tick of the clock. Nothing moves slower than watched time. She had great difficulty concentrating on her duties because of this.

When she wasn’t watching time she was daydreaming.

Now that he had emerged as a real person, there were things in him she found to admire. Some of them might be traced to their mutual whiteness. Some of them were his alone. All of them held her interest.

She felt a mysterious pride when she thought of the deeds he had performed, deeds that were known by all her people.

Remembering his playacting made her laugh. Sometimes he was very funny. Funny but not foolish. In every way he seemed sincere and open and respectful and full of good humor. She was convinced that these qualities were genuine.

The sight of him with the breastplate on had seemed out of place at first, like a Comanche would be out of place in a top hat. But he wore it day after day without paying the least attention to it. And he never took it off. It was obvious that he loved it.

His hair was tangled like hers, not thick and straight like the others. And he hadn’t tried to change it.

He hadn’t changed the boots and pants either but wore them in the same natural way he took to the breastplate.

These musings led her to the conclusion that Dances With Wolves was an honest person. Every human being finds certain characteristics above all others to cherish, and for Stands With A Fist it was honesty.

This thinking about Dances With Wolves did not subside, and as the afternoon wore on, bolder thoughts came to her. She pictured him coming back at sundown. She pictured them together in the arbor the following day.

One more image came to her as she knelt by the edge of the river in the late afternoon, filling a jug with water. They were together in the arbor. He was talking about himself and she was listening. But it was only the two of them.

Kicking Bird was gone.

Her daydream became real on the very next day.

The three of them had just gotten down to talking when word was brought that a faction of young warriors had declared their intention to make a war party against the Pawnee. Because there had been no previous talk about this and because the young men in question were inexperienced, Ten Bears had hastily organized a council.

Kicking Bird was called away and suddenly they were alone.

The silence in the arbor was so heavy that it made both of them nervous. Each wanted to talk, but considerations of what to say and how to say it held them up. They were speechless.

Stands With A Fist finally decided on her opening words, but she was too late.

He was already turning to her, saying the words in a shy but forceful way.

“I want to know about you,” he said.

She turned away, trying to think. The English was still hard for her. Fractured by the effort of thought, it came out in clear but half-stuttered words.

“Whaa . . . what you know . . . want to know?” she asked.

For the rest of the morning she told him about herself, holding the lieutenant’s eager attention with the stories of her time as a white girl, her capture, and her long life as a Comanche.

When she tried to end a story he would ask another question. Much as she might have wanted, she could not get off the subject of herself. He asked how she came to be named, and she told the story of her arrival in camp so many years ago. Memories of her first months were hazy, but she well remembered the day she got her name.

She had not been officially adopted by anyone, nor had she been made a member of the band. She was only working. As she carried out her assignments successfully the work became less menial and she was given more instruction in the various ways of living off the prairie. But the longer she worked, the more resentful she became of her lowly status. And some of the women picked on her unmercifully.

Outside a lodge one morning she took a swing at the worst of these women. Being young and unskilled, she had no hope of winning a fight. But the punch she threw was hard and perfectly timed. It cracked against the point of the woman’s chin and knocked her cold. She kicked her unconscious tormentor for good measure and stood facing the other women with her fists balled, a tiny white girl ready to take on all comers.

No one challenged her. They only watched. In moments everyone had returned to what they were doing, leaving the mean woman lying where she had dropped.

No one picked on the little white girl after that. The family that had been taking care of her became open with their kindnesses, and the road to becoming a Comanche was smoothed for her. She was Stands With A Fist from then on.

A special kind of warmth filled the arbor as she told the story. Lieutenant Dunbar wanted to know the exact spot where her fist struck the woman’s chin, and Stands With A Fist unhesitatingly grazed his jaw with her knuckles.

The lieutenant stared at her after this was done.

His eyes slowly rolled under his lids and he keeled over.

It was a good joke and she extended it, bringing him to by gently jiggling his arm.

This little exchange produced a new ease between them, but good as it was, the sudden familiarity also caused Stands With A Fist some worry. She didn’t want him to ask her personal questions, questions about her status as a woman. She could feel the questions coming, and the specter of this broke her concentration. It made her nervous and less communicative.

The lieutenant sensed her pulling back. It made him nervous and less communicative as well.

Before they knew it, silence had fallen between them once again.

The lieutenant said it anyway. He didn’t know precisely why, but it was something he had to ask. If he let it pass now, he might never ask. So he did.

Casually as he could, he stretched out a leg and yawned.

“Are you married?” he asked.

Stands With A Fist dropped her head and fixed her eyes on her lap. She shook her head in a short, uncomfortable way and said, “No.”

The lieutenant was on the verge of asking why when he noticed that her head was falling slowly into her hands. He waited a moment, wondering if something was wrong.

She was perfectly still.

Just as he was about to speak again she suddenly clambered to her feet and left the arbor.

She was gone before Dunbar could call after her. Devastated, he sat numbly in the arbor, damning himself for having asked the question and hoping against hope that whatever had gone wrong could be put right again. But there was nothing he could do on that account. He couldn’t ask Kicking Bird’s advice. He couldn’t even talk to Kicking Bird.

For ten frustrating minutes he sat alone in the arbor. Then he started for the pony herd. He needed a walk and a ride.

Stands With A Fist went for a ride, too. She crossed the river and meandered down a trail though the breaks, trying to sort her thoughts.

She didn’t have much luck.

Her feelings about Dances With Wolves were in a terrible jumble. Not so long ago she hated the thought of him. For the last several days, she hadn’t thought of anything but him. And there were so many other contradictions.

With a start she realized she had given no thought to her dead husband. He had been the center of her life so recently, and now she had forgotten him. Guilt bore down on her.

She turned her pony about and started back, forcing Dances With Wolves out of her head with a long string of prayers for her dead husband.

She was still out of sight of the village when her pony lifted his head and snorted in the way horses do when they’re afraid.

Something large crashed in the brush behind her, and knowing the sound was too large to be anything but a bear, Stands With A Fist hurried her pony home.

She was recrossing the river when the idle thought hit her.

I wonder if Dances With Wolves has ever seen a bear, she said to herself.

Stands With A Fist stopped herself then. She could not let this happen, this constant thinking of him. It was intolerable.

By the time she reached the opposite bank the woman who was two people had resolved that her role as a translator would from now on be a thing of business, like trading. It would go no further, not even in her mind.

She would stop it.