The Holy Road

Chapter XLII

By mid-morning of the next day all who had decided to go in with Kicking Bird pulled out. More than half the village trudged north for the country of the Kiowas and the unpredictable future awaiting them. There were many young. There were widows and a few widowers and a dozen prime warriors and their families. Ten Bears was last to fade from sight, his travois at the rear of the column racking the earth's every wrinkle.

It had been a bitter, wrenching departure, oddly devoid of all but the most poignant sound: a stifled shriek of agony or a sudden fit of muffled sobbing. People who were staying behind milled mutely through the slow-moving column as it left the village, reaching up to touch relatives and friends with trembling hands. When they were gone, people seemed stuporous as they tried to pick up the tasks of everyday life. Their hearts were dragging and tears were constantly being wiped away as moved about.

Even Wind In His Hair was weeping — to his surprise — and to clear his head, he jumped on a pony and galloped alone onto prairie for a distance of several miles before halting at the top of a little berm.

There he slipped off the pony, started a fire, and smoked in silence under graying skies that threatened rain. Seeing so many people go was difficult. He knew in his heart that he was nor likely to see them again. He also knew that with their leaving, Comanche sway over the domain they had controlled was broken.

But as he stared over a prairie whose surface was pierced here and there with the last, errant rays of the sun, the shock of separation began to recede, clearing space in his mind for contemplation of how he would defend his country.

Seventy strong warriors followed him but they would never be enough to fight the many soldiers corning out. As the first drop of rain struck his forehead, Wind In His Hair realized, that it would be well to be moving all the time. In that way soldiers might be kept off balance and contact with itinerant bands of people who might be absorbed into his force was more likely.

In the meantime, scouting parties would have to be sent out to keep an eye on the hair-mouth soldiers while the village went about the work of trying to make enough meat to see it through winter. Food was paramount, especially with the buffalo so scarce. Men could not fight long on empty bellies, and if children began to cry for food, all ears would be cocked in their direction.

The clouds were hanging close to the ground and rain was falling steadily when Wind In His Hair reentered the village. The wet and cold had driven the dispirited Comanches inside their lodges. He guided his pony to the center of the lifeless village and sat on his horse for a minute or two. He could hear no talk or laughter, not even the whine of a youngster and, hearing only the dismal cascade from above, it occurred to Wind In His Hair that the sooner the village shook off its lethargy, the better would be its chances for survival.

Within half an hour every warrior in the village was firing into his lodge, and when Wind In His Hair rose to speak, every face looked to him, yearning for guidance.

"Hear me now, Brothers,” he exhorted quietly. “We must turn ourselves inside out from this moment. Every warrior's heart must be brought out. We must cover our skins with bravery because from this moment we live only to defend our country.

"Myself and three others are all that is left of the Hard Shields. But I will not pick from among you to replace warriors who have been destroyed. From now on, all of you, and all who join us, will fight as Hard Shields."

Wind In His Hair had just told his listeners of the plan to move the village north and west, in search of meat, when the lodge flaps flew open and the rain-soaked heads of several women appeared. Each had a look of horror on her face and each was shrieking the same thing at once.

"White people! White people outside camp!"

Half-trampling each other, warriors spilled out of the lodge and scrambled over the muddy ground for their horses. As was his habit, Wind In His Hair had his pony tied immediately outside and he was one of the first to get mounted. The one-eyed warrior did not wait for a force to form behind him but galloped out of the village with a handful of others in the direction indicated by the frightened women.

The rain was driving across the grasslands in thick, waving sheets and it was hard to see anything. But a half mile out of camp, Wind In His Hair glimpsed the first ghostly outlines of four people on horseback.

He kicked his pony harder and the silhouettes ahead were just beginning to take shape when Wind In His Hair jerked at his pony's mouth and sat back. The horse's hind hooves planted in the watery earth and skidded to a stop. The warriors behind him halted too, peering intently through the rain at the figures a hundred yards ahead, reconfirming had caused Wind In His Hair to pull up.

The people weren't running away and they weren't coming forward. They were standing perfectly still and, for a moment, Wind In His Hair considered the alarming idea that they might be ghosts. The outlines ahead were shimmering through the rain in vaporous waves.

Overcoming the fear sparking at the base of his neck, he nudged his pony forward, and as he drew closer, Wind In His Hair discarded the idea of ghosts. The people were wearing white man clothes, and in the shrinking distance Wind In His Hair was momentarily caught up, trying to discern a few details of their appearance.

But when he swung his gaze again to the foremost of the riders the one who seemed to be a man, the features of his face suddenly came together. Peering out from under the dripping brim of the white man hat were a pair of unmistakable eyes.

It was Dances With Wolves.