Dances Naked

by Dani Haviland

  Marty grinned as he remembered that he still had some granola stashed in the pocket of his leather vest. “Thanks for the food, too,” he crowed as he grabbed a couple of morsels and popped them into his mouth.

  The brief downpour was a warm summer cloudburst that hadn’t chilled the air. “Thanks again,” a worn out and satisfied Marty said softly as he snuggled his face and chest into his wadded up clothing, finding comfort in the warm, moist and musky cotton.

  This time, it was a foot poking him in his backside that woke him. Marty was too at peace with himself to be frightened by the intrusion so, rather than panic, he stretched out his arms, grinned at the glow of sunrise visible in front of him, and slowly stood up. He totally ignored the fact that there had to be a person or animal attached to the fanny prod that had roused him. He looked away from the sunrise and turned around to see his wake up crew: three Indians and four ponies, one of them his stolen mare, complete with saddle.

  “Looks like you found my horse,” he said, smiling and nodding to each of the men in greeting. “If you care to help me find my way home, I’ll be glad to let you keep her…”

  Marty could tell that his words weren’t understood. He could just as easily been reciting the months of the year to these braves: they didn’t seem interested. What they were interested in, at least the tallest of the group, were his clothes.

  Red Shirt tilted his head in confusion then kicked the bundle of clothing away from Marty’s feet. He picked up the shirt first, shook it out and examined it, sniffed it, made a face of disgust, then threw it back down. He squatted beside the pants, ran his fingers over the brass buttons on the fly, and smiled. He stood up with the tan, heavyweight cotton, work pants, held them in front of his hips to check the fit, and then frowned. He poked the brass studs with his index finger, taken aback by the rivets at the pockets. He wanted to make sure they weren’t bugs, or so it seemed.

  “Those are to reinforce the seams,” Marty volunteered, then employed sign language, pulling imaginary cloth to show how sturdy the stitching was.

  Marty turned slightly to see what the other two braves were doing. “My shoes!” he screeched in panic. He had been distracted with Red Shirt and the jeans and now saw that the other two braves each held one of his handmade sandals, turning them over, examining the crude workmanship, chuckling at his primitive efforts. “Where were they?” he asked in dread. “I have to know which direction…oh, bother,” he finished in exasperation, “what difference does it make now? I don’t even know if I was going in the right direction to start with.”

  Red Shirt was now smiling. He had figured out that the pants weren’t insect infested and would make sturdy wear for him. He bent over sideways and untied the knot on the thong holding up his loincloth. He ceremoniously pulled the thin strip of leather belting away, bowed apart his knees, letting his breechclout drop to the ground. He took two steps away and sat on the ground, trying to put the pants on over his moccasins.

  Marty pulled himself in emotionally and evaluated his current situation in a clinical, detached manner, seeing it as it really was. This could play out to his benefit or wind up with his death. The horse and clothes, or lack thereof, would only be a short-term inconvenience for him if the Indians ‘appropriated’ them. He could ‘give’ them to them and be on his way with maybe some good directions to The Trees. Or, he could make a big stink over a bit of cloth and horseflesh and wind up dead, laid out in itty bitty pieces as a fall feast for the crows. ‘No contest,’ he thought.

  “Here, let me show you a trick,” Marty suggested as he walked over, still bare butt naked, to become the personal dresser to the Indian brave in charge.

  Evidently, Marty’s good nature showed through because Red Shirt stopped his struggle and let his paleface valet take over. “Here, take off the moccasins first,” he instructed, pointing to Red Shirt’s moccasins, but not touching them lest he find out the hard way that it was an insult. Red Shirt kicked them off then looked up for instructions on what to do next. “Here, stand up,” Marty said, offering his hand to the charismatic red man.

  Red Shirt didn’t accept the hand but stood up unaided—cutting his eyes over to his men to make sure he hadn’t lost their respect in dealing with the white man. If they had, they sure weren’t showing it; both of them were stone-faced and intrigued with the metal studded trousers. “See, you get one foot in, pull it up a little then put the other foot in…there you go. Now just shimmy them up,” Marty pantomimed, causing all three of the braves to chuckle softly at his getting dressed without any clothes.

  “Now the buttons—be careful. You don’t want to get your bits and pieces caught in there.” Marty illustrated by holding his private parts behind one hand, pretending to fumble with imaginary buttons with the other. Now the men were laughing out loud as Red Shirt stuffed his hand down his pants, making sure he was all inside before pulling the stiff fabric buttonholes around the brass buttons. It took a full minute for him to get them all fastened but everyone cheered when he raised his head with a guttural shout of victory at his accomplishment.

  “You look mighty fine there,” Marty complemented then bowed his head briefly to accentuate the remark. “Um, do you think that I might keep the shirt?” he asked, tentatively picking it up, sniffing it like Red Shirt had, and making his own exaggerated look of disgust at the smell—it really was quite rank.

  Red Shirt laughed at his antics and moved his hand as if he was shooing a bug off a biscuit: yes, Marty could keep the shirt; he didn’t want it. Marty said, “Thanks,” and donned the shirt quickly before anyone else could lay claim to it.

  Red Shirt said something in his native language. Marty wasn’t an expert on American Indians but this was Bibb’s ancestor’s land. He was probably speaking Cherokee. But, knowing, or making an educated guess, at which tongue he was speaking, didn’t make understanding him any easier. Marty shrugged his shoulders in the universally understood, he hoped, gesture of ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Red Shirt grinned; he knew the man didn’t understand him, but he was fun to watch. Most white men were all the same; this one was different. He’d let him keep his old breechclout and the shirt. He didn’t want to shame him but did want his pants. Red Shirt pointed to the cloth on the ground, offering it to the silly man.

  “For me? Really? Now that’s mighty considerate.” Marty picked up the decorated breechclout, very clean he was relieved to see, and nodded, “Thanks!” He bent over and grabbed the leather thong then looked at the men. “Let’s see if I can figure this out…,” he said as he held up the thong with one hand and the cloth with the other. He smiled and shrugged in resignation at what was sure to be a one-man comedy show.

  Marty bent over to the humiliating task. First, he lifted his shirt, unavoidably flashing the men with his nakedness, and tied the thong around his waist. He hoped he wasn’t making too much a fool of himself trying to figure out how to weave the cloth up between his legs and in and over the leather waistband in the front then, Lord help him, up his backside. “Well, let’s see if this feeble old white man can figure out how to cover his ass like an Indian,” Marty joked, making broad gestures as he made a show of his lack of skill in dressing Cherokee-style. It was better to make a parody and entertain the men than stress about his lack of clothing and loss of dignity.

  Marty fought the fabric and leather then realized that his main problem was the shirt—it kept getting in the way. “I still want this so don’t anyone take it, uh, please,” he said sincerely. He pulled his shirt off over his head. The thong still tied around his waist but the butt flap was only tucked in under his navel. Marty knew the braves were still laughing at him and now that he had the shirt off, he realized how simple the task should have been. “There!” he crowed in victory as he danced a little two step in a tight circle to show them that he had managed to cover himself adequately, at least as far as he was concerned. “Thank you, thank you very much,” he added with an Elvis Presley impersonation, “I’ll be he
re all day.”

  His voice changed back to his regular light British accent as he asked, “Are you from around here? I mean, I’m lost and need some help getting to the big trees.” Marty was employing his own version of sign language but it didn’t seem to help. “I want to get back to my woman and son,” he said with sadness. He put his arms in front of him and drew a curvy figure in the air, then placed his hands on the front of his chest to indicate big breasts and mimed cradling a baby. He realized that tears were falling down his cheeks but he didn’t care. He wanted to be back with Bibb and to meet the son he never knew he had. And right now, it didn’t look like his chances to be with them were very good. Nope, they were slim to none.

  Nope, not none. Marty looked up to the sky and put his arms up in prayer. “Lord, would you help these strong men understand that I need to go home? I don’t mean them any harm but really could use a bit of food, water, and direction. I’d appreciate it; in Jesus name, Amen.”

  Red Shirt snorted an order and the younger of the braves retrieved a bag from his horse. The three men sat down in an open circle and motioned for Marty to sit with them. The young man handed each one a modest-sized chunk of jerky, then passed around the canteen of water. It appeared that two out of three of his prayer requests had been answered. “Just a minute,” Marty said as he rifled through his vest to retrieve his contribution to the meal. “Here.” Marty offered each of the men a cashew nut then took one for himself. “Mmm, good.”

  Each of the men sniffed the nut. Red Shirt, being the bravest of the braves, ventured a lick of it. “Hmph.” Evidently, the salty taste appealed to him because he popped the whole nut in his mouth and chewed away blissfully, grunting to his peers to try theirs.

  “I wish I had more to share but I didn’t plan on being gone this long. Then again, I didn’t plan on being without my horse either. You do know that,” he nodded with his forehead to his mare, “that is my horse.”

  Red Shirt didn’t say anything. He knew what the white man was saying. He didn’t doubt that the horse had been his recently. The man he took it from didn’t fit in the saddle—the stirrups were too low for him. He was also mean to her, kicking the mare and racing her in circles just to stir up dust around the woman and child. No, the horse probably belonged to Dances Naked, but now she was his.

  “You can keep the horse,” Marty offered, although he knew they didn’t understand him. “I’m very grateful for the food and drink, and the new clothes are nice, too,” he said as he fingered the front of the breechclout. “But what I’d really appreciate is direction. Now, you see, there are these trees—they’re very special. You go through them here,” he said as he poked a couple of limb bits into little piles of gravel. He ‘walked’ with the first two fingers of his right hand through the tree models, “and then, poof, you come out…” Marty pulled his hand away and brought it out around the other side of him, fluttering his fingers like they were wayward moths.

  Red Shirt’s eyes widened. He knew where these trees were. Yes, he’d send Dances Naked in the right direction. He said he wanted to be with his woman and child. If he was willing to go through The Trees to be with them, he’d help him. But he wasn’t going with him. That was where he lost his brother many winters ago. Little Big Man went into them to show how brave he was, but he never came out.

  Marty saw the momentary look of terror on Red Shirt’s face. He wasn’t sure if the man understood his English or if it was just his sign language, but he knew one thing for sure: Red Shirt knew where he wanted to go.

  Just as Marty was deciding how he should broach the subject—he didn’t know anything about Cherokee diplomacy— the horses started neighing and jumping around. Something was frightening them.

  “You can have the mare, but I want that stallion,” Grant announced menacingly as he strutted into the middle of the group, brandishing the bone-handled knife in his left hand, a silvery pistol in his right.

  All of the men in the breakfast club looked at each other, completely bypassing looks of embarrassment or anger at being caught off guard, instead making non-spoken plans to disarm the dishonorable white man. Red Shirt looked at Marty, too. Marty lowered his eyelids halfway, letting his new friend know that he was on their side. He’d help them take down the man who had stolen his horse, hat, and boots, and hit him in the face for no reason at all.

  “Where’d you get the gun, Grant?” Marty called out sassily, meaning to distract the repeat offending villain from whatever the braves were doing.

  “My dumb sister had it, if it’s any of your business, and it’s not,” he replied indignantly. “Now, why don’t you be a good little man and bring me the reins of that stallion there,” he ordered Marty.

  Marty stood up slowly, taking as much time as he dared. He wasn’t part of the action; he was the diversion. He pulled himself up to his full height and brushed a few leaves off the front of his breechclout. He was an older man but still much taller than Grant. ”Little?” Marty asked as he stuck his neck out proudly. ‘Hurry up, red men. Lord, don’t let him shoot that gun, but if he does, may he be a lousy shot!’

  “What’s going on here?” Grant asked gruffly. “Why are you with them and not tied up? I didn’t think you were a dumb Indian.”

  “Hmph!” Marty snorted, trying to think of a line to use to eat up time. “I didn’t do anything wrong so why should I be tied up? No, these men were quite accommodating. We just did some trading and were finishing our breakfast when you showed up. Oh,” he added when he saw that one of the braves was ready to disarm Grant, “and they’re not dumb.”

  The Young One rushed Grant, startling him, actually bewildering Rachel’s nasty brother so much that he dropped his pistol without being hit. However, he still had a death grip on his knife, his metallic best friend, or at least the favorite part of his non-biological person. Nothing would make him give up his steely appendage.

  Or, so he thought. The Young One was gone and now Number Two was in his face, glaring at him, fixing his intimidating gaze on a terrified Grant. Without batting an eye, Number Two kneed him in the groin, then forearmed him under the chin. He reached up and grabbed the knife as it went flying out of Grant’s hand with the whiplash blow.

  Red Shirt grunted and nodded at his men: tie him up. The worthless wad of white man was now lying sideways on the ground, his forehead bent into his knees, blubbering. He shamelessly wailed in pain, his voice high and squealing like a toddler who had just been robbed of his teddy bear. Number Two nudged Grant gruffly, not quite kicking him but definitely putting some force behind the foot. The groundling took the hint: stand up. Grant rolled onto his knees then stumbled upright, groaning in embarrassment as he noticed that he had pissed himself. He sniffed then groaned again. And shit himself, too.

  Number Two grabbed Grant’s right hand and wound a strip of rawhide around it, making a point to cinch it tightly. Grant pulled his left hand away, tucking it under his chin—he didn’t want to be tied up. “I’ll be good,” he pled. “You don’t need to tie me up.”

  Number Two grunted and nodded to the left hand: ‘give it to me or else’ was loud and clear in the guttural language of the victor.

  “No, really—I promise…” Grant begged.

  Twack! Number Two’s fist found Grant’s left jaw with a solid blow. Blood spurted out of the right side of his mouth with the impact. The pugilistic attitude adjustment knocked him sideways to the ground and his knees. A humbled Grant, still tethered to the Indian by the thong on his right wrist, stuck out his left hand. He cautiously lifted his head and, at the same time, moved his tongue around the inside of his mouth. His eyes opened wide—he found it. He spit out the tooth and grumbled, “It was rotten anyway.”

  Number Two quickly bound the whiner’s left hand to his right then pushed the stinking, literally, whiner to the ground. Grant let out a groan as he landed on his butt—he was sitting in his own excrement. Red Shirt walked up to him and nudged his shoulder with his mocassined foot, letting his prisoner kn
ow that he was to lie back. Grant obeyed and looked up wide-eyed at the tall Indian. Red Shirt gently but firmly placed his foot on the man’s throat and shook his head in admonishment. He was in command, not him, and he shouldn’t have threatened him or his men, or tried to steal his horse. There would be repercussions. Grant sniffed and gulped but didn’t say a word. Even if he had been dumb enough to try, it wouldn’t have worked: the foot on his throat had paralyzed his larynx.

  “No, they’re not dumb,” reiterated Marty. “They’re actually very clever and I’m proud to claim them as friends. Now, where are your sister and the baby?”

  “We’re over here,” called Rachel as she boldly walked up to the site of the confrontation. “I told you it was a stupid idea,” she said angrily to her bloody-faced, sniveling brother. “You should have been happy with just the one horse. Serves you right though, for not letting us ride, too.”

  Red Shirt lifted his head to the man Marty figured was his second in command. At least he wasn’t the youngest one who had acted as a waiter earlier. Number Two came over and took over the throat throttling position and Red Shirt sauntered over to Rachel.

  The very young mother stood tall, unafraid on the outside, but trembling on the inside. He couldn’t be any worse than her brothers. She let the red man touch the sleeve of her dress and caress the cheek of her son who was intrigued with the man with long black hair. Junior reached both arms out to Red Shirt, wanting to be held. The brave looked at Rachel to see how she felt about it—not that it would make any difference to him—she was a white woman. But, she wasn’t like the other ones he had seen up close. They were all frantic at his sight, scared, screaming, and with water gushing out of their eyes and nose. No, she was different. Rachel dipped her head giving him tacit permission to hold her son.

  Red Shirt took the child and saw right away he was different. She did not have the cloth on his behind to keep the wetness and filth next to his skin. She kept her son bare bottomed as he should be. She was young but had already proved to be healthy enough to produce a son. He nodded his head at her. Yes, he’d take her and the child with him.