Though it was far to the north, it wasn't as if no one had ever been there. A few people knew that country well and most had at least touched it in their far-ranging travels. Now that soldiers and buffalo-hunters and settlers had invaded it, everyone wondered if the Comanche might not be next. The Kiowa nation was just to the north, a buffer between the Cheyenne and Comanche, but that was little consolation in light of the monstrous power of what the Cheyenne had called the holy road.
The road and what it carried and what it might mean for all of them was too incomprehensible for consensus to emerge in the endless round of meetings that day. A significant number of warriors refused to believe that the whites would ever consider invading their country, and at many fires there was talk about how quickly the whites would be destroyed if they were so foolish as to try to encroach on Comanche lands. Soldiers especially. Soldiers couldn't ride. They couldn't shoot well, and their big American horses gave out quickly. If soldiers came, they would probably die of thirst before Comanche warriors had a chance to kill them.
The older men shared a more measured approach to the Cheyenne revelations. Kicking Bird and his contemporaries had been trained from birth as warriors, and fighting was second nature to them, but the weight of age and experience gave them a more practical view Still, there was no consensus here, either. Should they move farther west? Should they go to war with the Cheyenne? Should they think about attending the next time whites sent runners with invitations to a council? These and many other issues were raised, but no one could agree. How could there be agreement on what could not be understood?
Kicking Bird smoked the pipe in many lodges that day, so many that by the time he returned home he wondered if all the smoking had not made him ill. Everyone inside was asleep, but lying down did not soothe his queasy stomach. It rolled in persistent waves and he soon went back outside, hoping the fresh air would take his sickness away.
The back of his lodge faced the open prairie, and as he stood staring at the night, Kicking Bird suddenly felt as if he were the only person in the world. How could this be? The earth was under his feet. The stars were filling his eyes. His wives and his children were asleep with full bellies. There was no sickness in camp. The season had been prosperous and there was no reason to think it would not continue. Comanche enemies were far away, and if they were foolish enough to come near they would surely be defeated. Even the whites, with all their guns and all their people, would be defeated if they came out here. How could they think of coming? What could they possibly want with the country of the Comanches except perhaps to walk across it? The more he thought about it, the more Kicking Bird realized that whatever the whites might bring was not as troubling at this moment as his own people's lack of readiness to meet the challenge.
Smoking so much had not made him sick at all. It was a sickness of the heart that had settled in him. Outside of himself no one in the village knew any white-man words and he had never practiced the words pried whenever possible from Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist. They could speak the words, but it was well known that the couple who had been born white would be the last to want anything to do with their birth race.
From all he had heard, the white man's talk was confusing. They had made many promises to the Cheyenne and Kiowa, not one of which had been kept. Even the presents they had promised rarely found their way into Indian hands.
Anyone who treated with the whites would have to be prepared. Kicking Bird was the best prepared of them all, yet he knew almost nothing of white ways. And what if he did? Would it really matter if he were smarter than all the whites put together?
Kicking Bird concluded, wistfully, that it would not matter. The Comanche could not agree on the significance of a single dead rat lying with a hole in its stomach in the middle of camp. How could they agree on a course of action for dealing with a nation of strange people whose numbers were staggering, whose clothes and customs and armaments and food and machines might have come from a world beyond the sun and the moon? Kicking Bird saw no way for the Comanche to remain as they were. He could not imagine the Comanche, or any other tribe, meeting the white threat as one people, and without unity all would surely be lost.
He resolved that night, standing alone behind his lodge, that he would never allow himself to feel this queasiness again. He could no more change the condition of the Comanches than he could reach into heaven and shuffle the stars. But he could still do all in his power to serve his people, his wives, his children, and himself. He could not allow himself to be crippled with doubt. Then he would serve no one.
He did not sleep in the family lodge that night, retiring instead to the tent next door, the place reserved especially for him, the place where the peace medal from the whites hung. His stomach trouble had disappeared completely and he quickly fell into a deep sleep, dreaming a terrible dream that the buffalo had vanished, returning to the earth from whence they had sprung, brothers no more to the Comanches or anyone else. The Indian people were left to wander in starvation, crying ceaselessly for their relatives the buffalo who had deserted them.
Late the next morning, his children, unable to wait any longer, flooded into the lodge of their father and, as they rolled over him in a happy pile, Kicking Bird knew more than ever that no power on earth could sway him from his course, He would do his best to handle what was coming. He would offer all of his experience and wisdom to the cause of leadership. He knew that whatever happened he would not disappoint the tangle of arms and legs in which he was now entwined, and that was good enough for Kicking Bird.
Chapter X
Smiles A Lot had no bad dreams. In fact, he slept soundly and deeply for the first time in weeks.
He was up long before Kicking Bird began wrestling with his children and spent most of the early morning with his horses, trying to figure out how best to exploit his wealth. So beautiful, he thought as he meandered back and forth among them. They all knew and trusted him, and as he passed by, dragging a gentle hand over their slick coats, the ponies would nicker to him or lazily blow the dust from their nostrils in a sign of contentment. He, in turn, felt unbounded affection for them. But he was not thinking how much he loved them this morning, he was trying to decide which ones he could do without.
In the past he'd sought peace in the company of his horses, a living shield against the doubts he had about himself. But now there was no vestige of doubt. Smiles A Lot looked upon his many horses as weapons, and before the sun was at midpoint he was back in camp fully armed.
Smiles A Lot had no capacity for guile, and as a trader he had never displayed the adroitness at bartering that came easily to others. He had never sought anything more than a fair return on the value he offered and that spirit had guided his selection of the half-dozen sturdy ponies he brought into camp that morning.
Three of the ponies he left picketed in front of his father's home. With the other three in tow, he crossed the village to the lodge of Horned Antelope's sister, the newly widowed Magpie Woman. She had lost her husband in the raid into Mexico and her sudden dependence on the charity of others made her a good candidate to provide what Smiles A Lot needed.
She was at home with her two children and seemed happy to see Smiles A Lot. Her chopped hair and the unhealed cuts on her arms made it plain that she was still in mourning, and when Magpie Woman warmed to the offer he made, Smiles A Lot knew he was doing the right thing.
It was common knowledge that his horses were the finest. Any one of them was a prize and he was offering three to the impoverished widow, two for materials and one for labor. Magpie Woman seemed delighted and assured him that the lodge he wanted her to make could be completed before the next full moon. She had enough hides already on hand, and though she might be short a few poles, she assured him she could find more without any trouble.
Returning home, he found his father and mother outside, curiously inspecting the three horses he had left staked to the ground.
"Are these your ponies?" his father
asked as Smiles A Lot came up.
"No, Father, they are yours."
"Mine? What do you mean?"
"I want to trade them for a bow and set of arrows."
"A bow. . and arrows. . for you?" his father asked.
"I want a long-shooting bow of ash, and maybe twenty arrows."
Smiles A Lot's father scratched the side of his head. "Twenty arrows. . that's a lot, son. There is no ash here. I would have to travel one or two sleeps to find it."
"That is why I'm offering three good ponies instead of one."
The older man cocked his head quizzically at his boy.
"Why do you want a bow and arrows?"
"Any man has to have such things in his lodge'"
"What lodge?" his mother suddenly spoke up.
"Magpie Woman is making me a lodge of my own."
Smiles A Lot's mother stepped in front of her husband. "How can you have a lodge of your own? Who will keep it? Who will make your food. . your clothes?"
"Maybe I will," Smiles A Lot replied stoutly.
"This is backwards," his father started, "what will you do —"
"How can you have a lodge without a woman?" his mother interrupted.
"I will have a woman."
"Who?"
"I don't know. . someone good."
"People will laugh," his mother cautioned, "a grown man with a lodge and no family."
“Let them laugh," said Smiles A Lot. "I am a Comanche man. I can do what I want. I want a lodge and I'm going to have one. Father, will you take the ponies I'm offering or should I walk them over to Powder Face?"
"Powder Face!" his father exclaimed. "His arrows can't hit anything."
"Is it a bargain?" Smiles A Lot asked.
"You will have to be patient. . an ash bow takes time."
"I'll be patient."
Leaving his stunned parents, Smiles A Lot set off once more and a few minutes later was standing at Owl Prophet's lodge flap. He announced himself and waited.
After what seemed a long time the flap opened and the slit-eyed prophet stooped through the opening. He said nothing but stood staring down at Smiles A Lot, waiting for the boy who was good with horses to state his business.
"I am taking the warrior's path," the young man said evenly. "I want you to guide me."
Owl Prophet continued to stare at his caller. He looked at the sun. "Come back when there is shade on the other side of my lodge," he said. Then he ducked back through the flap.
When Smiles A Lot returned early in the afternoon he was leading another of his ponies. Again he announced himself and again Owl Prophet emerged. He glanced expressionless at the young roan stallion Smiles A Lot had brought and told the boy to come inside his family's lodge.
No one was at home and Smiles A Lot sat in the spot Owl Prophet indicated, on the other side of the small fire burning in the center of the floor. The prophet did not offer his visitor a pipe. He sat still, his long unbraided hair spilling down his shoulders, his eyes so narrow that it looked as if he might drift off to sleep at any moment.
After a long silence, his lips moved almost imperceptibly. "Tell me how this has come to pass."
Smiles A Lot told of the night he had spent in the rain outside Kicking Bird's lodge. He told of the arrangement he had made with Magpie Woman and the bargain he had struck with his father. He was tempted to reveal his feelings for Hunting For Something but decided that such an admission would only distract Owl Prophet.
It was hard to tell what Owl Prophet was doing. His eyes had shut as soon as Smiles A Lot started to explain, and they remained closed even after Smiles A Lot had stopped talking.
But all the while Owl Prophet held his head up, as if the eyes were somehow seeing through the lowered lids. Smiles A Lot started when the lids suddenly flew open and the prophet's eyes, round as eggs, stared straight through him. The words Owl Prophet spoke were flat and trancelike, delivered with an authority that discouraged questioning.
“Journey to the country of the Kiowa. Seek out the place of mystery, the great bluff with sides that slope back to the earth, the bluff whose rock face looks like a bear has clawed it. A creek runs along its base and winds around behind. Secret your horses and possessions there and climb the back side of the place of mystery. Sit near the edge where the rock face falls to the creek. Do not eat. Do not drink. Only pray. Pray hard. Ask the Mystery to reveal your destiny. When you see something, come and tell me what it is."
Owl Prophet trembled. His eyelids closed then opened into slits once again. "You have heard me," he said lowly. "Make ready and go. Leave that pony where he is."
Smiles A Lot wasted no time. He asked his befuddled mother to prepare enough food for a week of sleeps, then picked up his old bow and a few arrows and cut three favorite ponies from his herd. His preparations were so single-minded and hasty that to say good-bye had not occurred to him. His only thought was to follow Owl Prophet's instructions, and when his father asked when he would return, Smiles A Lot answered simply, "I don't know.”
Then he vaulted onto a dapple-gray pony and, with horsehair lines to the other two in hand, started off through the village. People noticed him leaving but no one spoke to the boy, whose eyes were fixed straight ahead to the northeast.
One, however, followed him to the edge of the village, there to stand watching on the lip of the prairie as the young man and his horses shrank to specks. For a long time she had wished he would look her way or speak to her. For a long time she had been unable to think of much else and her heartstrings had been jumping all morning with the news that Magpie Woman was building a lodge for him, that his father was going to make him a bow, and that he had been sequestered with Owl Prophet.
What mission he was undertaking she did not know. She only knew that whenever a man left camp there was no guarantee he would return, and she stood squinting until the black dots moving in the distance vanished below the horizon. All along she had hoped that the rider and his horses would by some miracle grow larger again and that he would be riding toward her instead of away. But now he was gone and inwardly she chided herself for being shy. Life was uncertain these days. It seemed like something new was happening every day and there was no knowing what tomorrow promised. And now there was nothing she could do but wait and hope for his return. Then she would do something, she told herself.
For now her heart was on the ground. She stared down at her moccasins with wet eyes and with the wild thought of jumping on one of her father's ponies and racing out to catch up with him. But when she lifted her eyes once more and saw that he was truly gone, she put herself back in the hands of fate and walked gloomily into the village. It would do no good to mourn a missed opportunity, she told herself. Might as well go home and make up grandfather's bowl of pemmican.
Chapter XI
Wind In His Hair did not much care for domestic life. Left to his own, he would have little to do with anyone, even those connected to his blood. But his sense of dedication defeated him. He recognized that a part of his responsibility as a warrior was to make himself available to family beyond his wives and children, to occasionally make long journeys away from the home village. He avoided such forays to the scattered villages of the plains whenever possible, but his wives were shrewd. Several times a year they laid careful traps for their celebrated husband, traps which once sprung were rarely evaded.
Such was the case with his most recent trip, a trip to the south one of his wives had asked for as they slept together on a snowbound night many moons before. In the time that followed she had taken care to remind him of his promise only at moments when his spirits were especially good, and he finally declared that they would go soon after his return from Mexico.
Any attempt to wriggle out of the domestic mission was made especially hard by One Braid Trailing's status as his youngest, prettiest, and favorite wife. She was devoted to him and didn't lose her temper often. And they never had to go all over the country because her only family resided with the Honey-
Eater band in the south.
Her father was a Comanche, her mother a lifelong Mexican captive, and Wind In His Hair liked them both, especially the father, who was esteemed as a member of the Honey-Eaters' equivalent of the Hard Shields.
What he didn't like, aside from the unexciting social nature of the visit, was the country. The country had too many small hills and trees. Hills and trees made him nervous because he was used to gazing as far as he could see.
The worst thing about going to the Honey-Eaters, however was their closeness to the whites. The slow-spreading infection of whites eating into the body of the Comanche empire was most pronounced in the southern extremities, and though the band he was visiting was the largest and strongest among the remaining Honey-Eaters, it was still tiny in comparison with the powerful communities farther north.
Attrition from constant conflict with the whites had tattered the community's once cohesive quilt. The village was top-heavy with the old and infirm. Mature warriors seemed to grow scarcer each year, and few were the young men ready to take their places. So many of them had been killed by what the whites called "rangers," deadly bands of heavily armed whites who roamed the borders of Comanche country looking for Indians to exterminate. They killed Comanches in any way they could and were more likely to poison a spring or knock a man off his horse with a far-shooting gun than they were to engage him in face-to-face combat.
They were good at hiding in the eastern country of hills and trees and that made them hard to kill, aside from the rare occasions when they were found in the open. If found there, they would invariably retreat, hats flying in the dust of speeding horses.
Ambush was their forte and a Comanche party wandering into one ran the risk of losing every man. The whites always had guns, several for each man, and they never seemed to run out of bullets. The end result was sad news coming back to camp, news that made for widows and orphans, and gave cause for new war parties going out, part of a never-ending cycle of remorse and retribution that fractured the pleasures of living as surely as a splintered mirror cuts an image to pieces.
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