Dances With Wolves dww-1

by Michael Blake

  He tugged on Cisco’s reins, but if the buckskin felt it at all, he paid it no mind. His neck was stretched out straight, his ears were flat, and his nostrils were flared to their fullest, gobbling the wind that fueled him ever closer to the herd.

  Lieutenant Dunbar had no time to think. The prairie was flying past his feet, the sky was rolling overhead, and between the two, spread out in a long line directly ahead, was a wall of stampeding buffalo.

  He was close enough now to see the muscles of their hindquarters. He could see the bottoms of their hooves. In seconds he would be close enough to touch them.

  He was rushing into a deathly nightmare, a man in an open boat floating helplessly toward the lip of the falls. The lieutenant didn’t scream. He didn’t say a prayer or make the sign of the cross. But he did close his eyes. The faces of his father and mother popped into his head. They were doing something he had never seen them do. They were kissing passionately. There was a pounding all about them, a great, rolling rumble of a thousand drums. The lieutenant opened his eyes and found himself in a dreamlike landscape, a valley filled with gigantic brown and black boulders hurtling in a single direction.

  They were running with the herd.

  The tremendous thunder of tens of thousands of cloven hooves carried the curious silence of a deluge, and for a few moments Dunbar was serenely adrift in the crazy quiet of the stampede.

  As he clung to Cisco he looked out over the massive, moving carpet of which he was now a part and imagined that, if he wanted, he could slip off his horse’s back and make it to the safety of empty ground by hopping from one hump to another, as a boy might skip across the rocks in a stream.

  The rifle slipped, nearly falling out of his sweaty hand, and as it did, the bull running on his left, no more than a foot or two away, veered in sharply. With a thrust of his shaggy head he tried to gore Cisco. But the buckskin was too deft. He jumped away and the horn only grazed his neck. The move nearly dumped Lieutenant Dunbar. He should have fallen to his death. But the buffalo were packed so tightly around him that he bounced against the back of a buffalo running along the other side and somehow righted himself.

  Panicked, the lieutenant lowered his rifle and fired at the buffalo who had tried to gore Cisco. It was a bad shot, but the bullet shattered one of the beast’s front legs. Its knees buckled and Dunbar heard the snap of its neck as the bull somersaulted.

  Suddenly there was open space all around him. The buffalo had shied away from the report of his gun. He pulled hard at Cisco’s reins and the buckskin responded. In a moment they had stopped. The rumble of the herd was receding.

  As he watched the herd fall away in front of him he saw that his fellow hunters had caught them. The sight of naked men on horseback, running with all these animals, like corks bobbing in high seas, held him spellbound for several minutes. He could see the bend of their bows and the puffs of dust as one after another of the buffalo went down.

  But not many minutes had passed before he turned back. He wanted to see his kill with his own eyes. He wanted to confirm what seemed too fantastic to be true.

  Everything had happened in less time than it took to shave.

  seven

  It was a big animal to begin with, but in death, lying still and alone in the short grass, it looked bigger.

  Like a visitor at an exhibit, Lieutenant Dunbar circled the body slowly. He paused at the bull’s monstrous head, took one of the horns in hand, and tugged at it. The head was very heavy. He ran his hand the length of the body: through the wooly thatch on the hump, down the sharply sloping back, and over the fine-coated rump. He held the tufted tail between his fingers. It seemed ridiculously small.

  Retracing his steps, the lieutenant squatted in front of the bull’s head and squeezed the long, black beard hanging from its chin. It reminded him of a general’s goatee, and he wondered if this fellow had been a high-standing member of the herd.

  He stood up then and backed up a step or two, still taken with the sight of the dead buffalo. How just one of these remarkable creatures could exist was a beautiful mystery. And there were thousands of them.

  Maybe there are millions, he thought.

  He felt no pride in having taken the bull’s life, but it brought him no remorse either. Aside from a strong sensation of respect, he felt no emotion. He did feel something physical, however. He could feel his stomach twisting. He heard it grumble. His mouth had begun to water. For several days his meals had been skimpy, and now, gazing down at this large pile of meat, he was acutely aware of his hunger.

  Barely ten minutes had passed since the furious charge, and already the hunt was over. Leaving their dead behind, the herd had vanished. The hunters were hanging about their kills, waiting as the women and children and elderly poured onto the plains, hauling their butchering equipment along with them. Their voices were ringing with excitement, and Dunbar was struck by the idea that some kind of festival had begun.

  Wind In His Hair suddenly galloped up with two cronies. Flush with success, he was smiling broadly as he vaulted off his heaving pony. The lieutenant noticed an ugly, leaking gash just below the warrior’s knee.

  But Wind In His Hair didn’t notice. He was still beaming grandly as he sidled up to the lieutenant and whacked him on the back with a well-intentioned greeting that sent Dunbar sprawling onto the ground.

  Laughing good-naturedly, Wind In His Hair pulled the stunned lieutenant to his feet and pressed a thick-bladed knife into his palm. He said something in Comanche and pointed at the dead bull.

  Dunbar stood flatfooted, staring sheepishly at the knife in his hand. He smiled helplessly and shook his head. He didn’t know what to do.

  Wind In His Hair muttered an aside that made his friends laugh, smacked the lieutenant on the shoulder, and took back the knife. Then he dropped to one knee at the belly of Dunbar’s buffalo.

  With the aplomb of a seasoned carver he drove the knife deep into the buffalo’s chest and, using both hands, dragged the blade back, opening it up. As the guts spilled out, Wind In His Hair stuck a hand into the cavity, groping about like a man feeling for something in the dark.

  He found what he wanted, gave it a couple of stiff tugs, and rose to his feet with a liver so large that it flopped over both his hands. Mimicking the white soldier’s well-known bow, he presented this prize to the dumbstruck lieutenant. Gingerly, Dunbar accepted the steaming organ, but having no idea what to do, he fell back on his trusty bow and, politely as he could, handed the liver back.

  Normally, Wind In His Hair might have taken offense, but he reminded himself that “Jun” was white and therefore ignorant. He made yet another bow, stuffed one end of the still warm liver into his mouth and tore off a substantial chunk.

  Lieutenant Dunbar watched incredulously as the warrior passed the liver to his friends. They also gnawed off pieces of the raw meat. They were eating it greedily, as if it were fresh apple pie.

  By now a little crowd, some mounted, some on foot, had gathered around Dunbar’s buffalo. Kicking Bird was there, and so was Stands With A Fist. She and another woman had already begun to skin the dead bull.

  Once again wind In His Hair offered him the half-eaten meat and once again Dunbar took it. He held it dumbly as his eyes searched for an expression or a sign from someone in the crowd that would let him off the hook.

  He got no help. They were watching him silently, waiting expectantly, and he realized it would be foolishly transparent to try to pass it off again. Even Kicking Bird was waiting.

  So as Dunbar lifted the liver to his mouth he told himself how easy this was, that it would be no more difficult than forcing down a spoonful of something he hated, like lima beans.

  Hoping he wouldn’t gag, he bit into the liver.

  The meat was incredibly tender. It melted in his mouth. He watched the horizon as he chewed, and for the moment Lieutenant Dunbar forgot about his silent audience as his taste buds sent a surprising message to his brain.

  The meat was delicious.r />
  Without thinking, he took another bite. A spontaneous smile broke across his face and he lifted what was left of the meat triumphantly over his head.

  His fellow hunters answered his gesture with a chorus of wild cheers.

  CHAPTER XIX

  one

  Like many people, Lieutenant Dunbar had spent most of his life on the sidelines, observing rather than participating. At the times when he was a participant, his actions were distinctly independent, much like his experience in the war had been.

  It was a frustrating thing, always standing apart.

  Something about this lifelong rut changed when he enthusiastically lifted the liver, the symbol of his kill, and heard the cries of encouragement from his fellows. Then he had felt the satisfaction of belonging to something whose whole was greater than any of its parts. It was a feeling that ran deep from the start. And in the days he spent on the killing plain and the nights he spent in the temporary camp, the feeling was solidly reinforced.

  The army had tirelessly extolled the virtues of service, of individual sacrifice in the name of God or country or both. The lieutenant had done his best to adopt these tenets, but the feeling of service to the army had dwelled mostly in his head. Not in his heart. It never lasted beyond the fading, hollow rhetoric of patriotism.

  The Comanches were different.

  They were primitive people. They lived in a big, lonely, alien world that was written off by his own people as nothing more than hundreds of worthless miles to be crossed.

  But the facts of their lives had grown less important to him. They were a group who lived and prospered through service. Service was how they controlled the fragile destiny of their lives. It was constantly being rendered, faithfully and without complaint, to the simple, beautiful spirit of the way they lived, and in it Lieutenant Dunbar found a peace that was to his liking.

  He did not deceive himself. He did not think of becoming an Indian. But he knew that so long as he was with them, he would serve the same spirit.

  He was made a happier man by this revelation.

  two

  The butchering was a colossal enterprise.

  There were perhaps seventy dead buffalo, scattered like chocolate drops across a great earthen floor, and at each body families set up portable factories that worked with amazing speed and precision in transforming animals into usable products.

  The lieutenant could not believe the blood. It soaked into the killing ground like juice spilled on a tablecloth. It covered the arms and faces and clothing of the butcherers. It dripped from the ponies and travois transporting the flesh back to camp.

  They took everything: hides, meat, guts, hooves, tails, heads. In the space of a few hours it was all gone, leaving the prairie with the appearance of a gigantic, recently cleared banquet table.

  Lieutenant Dunbar passed the butchering time lolling around with the other warriors. Spirits were high. Only two men had been hurt, neither of them seriously. One veteran pony had snapped a foreleg, but that was little to lose when compared with the abundance the hunters had produced.

  They were delighted, and it showed in their faces as they hobnobbed through the afternoon, smoking and eating and swapping stories. Dunbar didn’t understand the words, but the stories were easy enough to pick up. They were tales of close calls and broken bows and the ones who had gotten away.

  When the lieutenant was called upon to relate his story, he mimed the adventure with a theatricality that drove the warriors crazy with laughter. It became the day’s most sought-after testimonial, and he was forced to repeat it a half-dozen times. The result was the same with every telling. By the time he was halfway through, his listeners would be hugging themselves, trying to hold back the ache of unbridled laughter.

  Lieutenant Dunbar didn’t mind. He was laughing, too. And he didn’t mind the role that luck had played in his deeds, for he knew that they were real. And he knew that through them he had accomplished something marvelous.

  He had become “one of the boys.”

  three

  The first thing he saw when they returned to camp that evening was his hat. It was riding on the head of a middle-aged man whom he did not know.

  There was a brief moment of tension as Lieutenant Dunbar strode directly over, pointed at the army-issue hat, which fitted the man rather badly, and said, in a matter-of-fact way, “That’s mine.”

  The warrior looked at him curiously and removed the hat. He turned it around in his hands and placed it back on his head. Then he slipped the knife off his belt, handed it to the lieutenant, and went on his way without saying a word.

  Dunbar watched his hat bob out of sight and stared down at the knife in his hand. Its beaded sheath looked like a treasure, and he walked off to find Kicking Bird, thinking he’d gotten much the best part of the exchange.

  He moved freely through the camp, and everywhere he went he found himself the object of cheerful salutations.

  Men nodded acknowledgments, women smiled, and giggling children tottered after him. The band was delirious with the prospect of the great feast to come, and the lieutenant’s presence was an added source of joy. Without a formal proclamation or consensus they had come to think of him as a living good-luck charm.

  Kicking Bird took him directly to Ten Bears’s lodge, where a little ceremony of thanks was being held. The old man was still remarkably fit, and the hump from his kill was being roasted first. When it was ready Ten Bears himself cut away a piece, said a few words to the Great Spirit, and honored the lieutenant by handing him the first piece.

  Dunbar made his short bow, took a bite, and gallantly handed the slab back to Ten Bears, a move that impressed the old man greatly. He fired up his pipe and further honored the lieutenant by offering him the first puff.

  The smoking in front of Ten Bears’s lodge marked the beginning of a wild night. Everyone had a fire going, and over every fire fresh meat was roasting; humps, ribs, and a wide array of other choice cuts.

  Lit like a small city, the temporary village twinkled long into the night, its smoke trailing into the darkened sky with an aroma that could be smelled for miles.

  The people ate like there was no tomorrow. When they were stuffed full they took short breaks, drifting off into little groups to make idle talk or to play at games of chance. But once the last meal had settled, they would return to the fires and gorge themselves again.

  Before the night was very far along Lieutenant Dunbar felt like he had eaten an entire buffalo. He’d been touring the camp with Wind In His Hair, and at each fire the pair was treated like royalty.

  They were en route to still another group of merrymakers when the lieutenant stopped in the shadows behind a lodge and told Wind In His Hair with signs that his stomach was hurting and that he wanted to sleep.

  But at this moment Wind In His Hair wasn’t listening too closely. His attention was riveted on the lieutenant’s tunic. Dunbar looked down his chest at the row of brass buttons, then back into the face of his hunting pal. The warrior’s eyes were slightly glazed as he stuck out a finger and let it come to rest on one of the buttons.

  “You want this?” the lieutenant asked, the sound of his words wiping the glaze from Wind In His Hair’s eyes.

  The warrior said nothing. He inspected his fingertip to see if anything had come off the button.

  “If you want it,” the lieutenant said, “you can have it.”

  He loosed the buttons, slipped his arms free of the sleeves, and handed it to the warrior.

  Wind In His Hair knew it was being offered, but he didn’t take it right away. Instead he began to undo the magnificent breastplate of shiny pipe-bone that was tied at his neck and waist. This he handed to Dunbar as his other brown hand closed around the tunic.

  The lieutenant helped with the buttons, and when it was on he could see that Wind In His Hair was as delighted as a kid at Christmas. Dunbar handed back the beautiful breastplate and was met with rejection. Wind In His Hair shook his head violently and wav
ed his hands. He made motions that told the white soldier to put it on.

  “I can’t take this,” the lieutenant stammered. “This is not . . . it’s not a fair trade. . . . You understand?”

  But Wind In His Hair wouldn’t hear of it. To him it was more than fair. Breastplates were full of power and took time to make. But the tunic was one of a kind.

  He turned Dunbar around, draped the decorative armor over his chest, and fastened the ties securely.

  So the trade was made and each man was happy. Wind In His Hair grunted a goodbye and started for the nearest fire. The new acquisition was tight and it itched against his skin. But that was of little import. He was certain that the tunic would prove to be a solid addition to his supply of charms. In time it might show itself to possess strong medicine, particularly the brass buttons and the golden bars on the shoulders.

  It was a great prize.

  four

  Eager to avoid the food he knew would be foisted on him were he to cut through camp, Lieutenant Dunbar stole onto the prairie and circled the temporary village, hoping he could spot Kicking Bird’s lodge and go straightaway to sleep.

  On his second full revolution he caught sight of the lodge marked with a bear, and knowing that Kicking Bird’s tipi would be pitched nearby, he reentered the camp.

  He’d not gone far when a sound gave him pause, and he stopped behind a nondescript lodge. Light from a fire was splashing across the ground just in front of him, and it was from this fire that the sound was coming. It was singing, high and repetitious and distinctly feminine.

  Hugging the wall of the lodge, Lieutenant Dunbar peered ahead in the manner of a Peeping Tom.