Dances With Wolves

by Michael Blake

  “Correct,” he whispered loudly.

  She turned away quickly then. But as she did, he heard the distinct sound of a giggle.

  three

  To stay any longer would have been useless. They had all the meat they could possibly carry. Just after dawn everything was packed, and the column was on the march by midmorning. with every travois piled high, the return trip took twice as long, and it was getting dark by the time they reached Fort Sedgewick.

  A travois loaded with several hundred pounds of jerked meat was brought up and unloaded into the supply house. A flurry of good-byes followed, and with Lieutenant Dunbar watching from the doorway of his sod hut, the caravan marched off for the permanent camp upstream.

  Without forethought his eyes searched the semidarkness surrounding the long, noisy column for a glimpse of Stands With A Fist.

  He couldn’t find her.

  four

  The lieutenant had mixed feelings about being back.

  He knew the fort as his home, and that was reassuring. It was good to pull his boots off, lie down on the pallet, and stretch out unobserved. With half-closed eyes he watched the wick flicker in his lamp, and drifted lazily in the quiet surrounding the hut. Everything was in its place, and so was he.

  Not many minutes had passed, however, before he realized his right foot was jiggling with aimless energy.

  What are you doing? he asked himself as he stilled the foot. You’re not nervous.

  It was only a minute more before he discovered the fingers of his right hand drumming impatiently at his chest.

  He wasn’t nervous. He was bored. Bored and lonely.

  In the past he would have reached for his cigarette fixings, made a smoke, and put himself to work puffing on it. But there was no more tobacco.

  Might as well have a look at the river, he thought, and with that, got back into his boots and walked outside.

  He stopped, thinking of the breastplate that was already so precious to him. It was draped over the army-issue saddle he’d brought from the supply house. He went back inside, intending only to look at it.

  Even in the weak light of the lamp it was shining brilliantly. Lieutenant Dunbar ran his hand over the bones. They were like glass. When he picked it up there was a solid clacking as bone kissed bone. He liked the cool, hard feel of it on his bare chest.

  The “look at the river” turned into a long walk. The moon was nearly full again and he didn’t need the lantern as he treaded lightly along the bluff overlooking the stream.

  He took his time, pausing often to look at the river, or at a branch as it bent in the breeze, or at a rabbit nibbling at a shrub. Everything was unconcerned with his presence.

  He felt invisible. It was a feeling he liked.

  After almost an hour he turned around and started home. If someone had been there as he passed by, they would have seen that, for all his lightness of step and for all his attention to things other than himself, the lieutenant was hardly invisible.

  Not during the times he stopped to look up at the moon. Then he would lift his head, turn his body full into the face of its magical light, and the breastplate would flash the brightest white, like an earthbound star.

  five

  An odd thing happened the next day.

  He spent the morning and part of the afternoon trying to work around the place: re-sorting what was left of the supplies, burning a few useless items, finding a protective way to store the meat, and making some journal entries.

  All of it was done with half a heart. He thought of shoring up the corral again but decided that he would just be manufacturing work for himself. He’d already made work for himself. It made him feel rudderless.

  When the sun was well on its way down, he found himself wanting to take another stroll on the prairie. It had been a blistering day. Perspiration from doing his chores had soaked through his pants and produced patches of prickly heat on his upper thighs. He could see no reason why this unpleasantness should accompany his stroll. So, Dunbar walked onto the prairie without his clothes, hoping he might run into Two Socks.

  Forsaking the river, he struck out across the immense grasslands which rippled in every direction with a life of its own.

  The grass had reached the peak of its growth, in some places grazing his hip. Overhead the sky was filled with fleecy, white clouds that stood against the pure blue like cutouts.

  On a little rise a mile from the fort he lay down in the deep grass. With a windbreak on all sides, he soaked up the last of the sun’s warmth and stared dreamily at the slow-moving clouds.

  The lieutenant turned on his side to bake his back. When he moved in the grass, a sudden sensation swamped him, one he had not known for so long that at first he wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

  The grass above rustled softly as the breeze moved through it. The sun lay on his backside like a blanket of dry heat. The feeling welled higher and higher and Dunbar surrendered to it.

  His hand fell downward, and as it did, the lieutenant ceased to think. Nothing guided his action, no visions or words or memories. He was feeling, and nothing more.

  When he was conscious again he looked to the sky and saw the earth turning in the movement of the clouds. He rolled onto his back, placed his arms straight against his sides in the manner of a corpse, and floated awhile on his bed of grass and earth.

  Then he closed his eyes and napped for half an hour.

  six

  He tossed and turned that night, his mind flitting from one subject to the next as though it were checking a long succession of rooms for a place to rest. Every room was either locked or inhospitable until at last he came to the place that, in the back of his mind, he knew he was bound for all the time.

  The room was filled with Indians.

  The idea was so right that he considered making the trip to Ten Bears’s camp that instant. But it seemed too impetuous.

  I’ll get up early, he thought. Maybe I’ll stay a couple of days this time. He woke with anticipation before dawn but steeled himself against getting up, resisting the idea of a headlong rush to the village. He wanted to go without rash expectations, and stayed in bed until it was light.

  When he had everything on but his shirt, he picked it up and slid an arm through one of the sleeves. He paused then, staring through the hut’s window to assess the weather. It was already warm in the room, probably warmer outside.

  It’s going to be a scorcher, he thought as he pulled the sleeve off his arm.

  The breastplate was hanging on a peg now, and as he reached for it, the lieutenant realized that he’d wanted to wear it all along, regardless of the weather.

  He packed the shirt away in a haversack, just in case.

  seven

  Two Socks was waiting outside.

  When he saw Lieutenant Dunbar come through the door he took two or three quick steps back, spun in a circle, sidestepped a few feet, and lay down, panting like a puppy.

  Dunbar cocked his head quizzically.

  “What’s got into you?”

  The wolf lifted his head at the sound of the lieutenant’s voice. His look was so intent that it made Dunbar chuckle.

  “You wanna go with me?”

  Two Socks jumped to his feet and stared at the lieutenant, not moving a muscle.

  “Well, c’mon then.”

  eight

  Kicking Bird woke thinking of “Jun” down there at the white man’s fort.

  “Jun.” What an odd name. He tried to think of what it might mean. Young Rider perhaps. Or Fast Rider. Probably something to do with riding.

  It was good to have the season’s first hunt ended. With the buffalo come at last, the problem of food had been solved, and that meant he could return to his pet project with some regularity. He would resume it this very day.

  The medicine man went to the lodges of two close advisers and asked if they wanted to ride down there with him. He was surprised at how eager they were to go, but took it as a good sign nonetheless. No one
was afraid anymore. In fact, people seemed to be at ease with the white soldier. In the talk he’d heard the last few days there were even expressions of fondness for him.

  Kicking Bird rode out of camp feeling especially good about the day to come. Everything had gone well with the early stages of his plan. The cultivation was finally complete. Now he could get down to the real business of investigating the white race.

  nine

  Lieutenant Dunbar figured he’d made close to four miles. He had expected the wolf to be long gone at the two-mile mark. At three miles he’d really started to wonder. And now, at four miles, he was thoroughly stumped.

  They’d entered a narrow, grassy depression wedged between two slopes, and the wolf was still with him. Never before had he followed so far.

  The lieutenant scissored off Cisco’s back and stared out at Two Socks. In his customary way the wolf had stopped, too. As Cisco lowered his head to chomp at the grass Dunbar began to walk in Two Socks’s direction, thinking he would be pressured into withdrawing. But the head and ears peering above the grass didn’t move, and when the lieutenant finally came to a halt, he was no more than a yard away.

  The wolf tilted his head expectantly but otherwise stayed motionless as Dunbar squatted.

  “I don’t think you’re going to be welcome where I’m going,” he said out loud, as though he were chatting with a trusted neighbor.

  He looked up at the sun. “It’s gonna be hot; why don’t you go on home?”

  The wolf listened attentively, but still he did not move.

  The lieutenant rocked to his feet.

  “C’mon, Two Socks,” he said irritably, “go home.”

  He made a shooing motion with his hands, and Two Socks scurried to one side.

  He shooed again and the wolf hopped, but it was obvious that Two Socks had no intention of going home.

  “All right then,” Dunbar said emphatically, “don’t go home. But stay. Stay right there.”

  He punctuated this with a wag of his finger and made an about-face. He’d just completed his turn when he heard the howl. It wasn’t full-blown, but it was low and plaintive and definite.

  A howl.

  The lieutenant swung his head around and there was Two Socks, his muzzle pointed up, his eyes trained on Lieutenant Dunbar, moaning like a pouty child.

  To an objective observer it would have been a remarkable display, but to the lieutenant, who knew him so well, it was simply the last straw.

  “You go home!” Dunbar roared, and he charged at Two Socks. Like a son who has pushed his father too far, the wolf flattened his ears and gave ground, scooting away with his tail tucked.

  At the same time Lieutenant Dunbar took off at a run in the opposite direction, thinking he would get to Cisco, gallop off at full tilt, and ditch Two Socks.

  He was tearing through the grass, thinking of his plan, when the wolf came bounding happily alongside.

  “You go home,” the lieutenant snarled, and veered suddenly at his pursuer. Two Socks hopped straight up like a scared rabbit, leaving his paws in the sudden panic to get away. When he came to ground the lieutenant was only a step behind. He reached out for the base of Two Socks’s tail and gave it a squeeze. The wolf shot ahead as if a firecracker had gone off under him, and Dunbar laughed so hard that he had to stop running.

  Two Socks skittered to a halt twenty yards away and stared back over his shoulder with an expression of such embarrassment that the lieutenant couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

  He gave him a wave of good-bye and, still chortling to himself, turned around to find that Cisco had wandered back the way they’d come, browsing at the choicest grass.

  The lieutenant started into an easy trot, unable to keep from laughing at the image of Two Socks running from his touch.

  Dunbar jumped wildly as something grabbed at his ankle and then let go. He spun back, ready to face the unseen attacker.

  Two Socks was right there, panting like a fighter between rounds.

  Lieutenant Dunbar stared at him for a few seconds.

  Two Socks glanced casually in the direction of home, as if thinking the game might be coming to a close.

  “All right then,” the lieutenant said gently, surrendering with his hands. “You can come, or you can stay. I don’t have any more time for this.”

  It might have been a tiny noise or it might have been something on the wind. Whatever it was, Two Socks caught it. He whirled suddenly and stared up the trail with his hackles raised.

  Dunbar followed suit and immediately saw Kicking Bird with two other men. They were close by, watching from the shoulder of a slope.

  Dunbar waved eagerly and hollered, “Hello,” as Two Socks began to slink away.

  ten

  Kicking Bird and his friends had been watching for some time, long enough to have seen the entire show. They had been greatly entertained. Kicking Bird also knew that he had witnessed something precious, something that had provided a solution to one of the puzzles surrounding the white man . . . the puzzle of what to call him.

  A man should have a real name, he thought as he rode down to meet Lieutenant Dunbar, particularly when it is a white who acts like this one.

  He remembered the old names, like The Man Who Shines Like Snow, and some of the new ones being bandied about, like Finds The Buffalo. None of them really fit. Certainly not Jun.

  He felt certain that this was the right one. It suited the white soldier’s personality. People would remember him by this. And Kicking Bird himself, with two witnesses to back him up, had been present at the time the Great Spirit revealed it.

  He said it to himself several times as he came down the slope. The sound of it was as good as the name itself.

  Dances With Wolves.

  CHAPTER XXI

  one

  In a quiet way it was one of the most satisfying days of Lieutenant Dunbar’s life.

  Kicking Bird’s family greeted him with a warmth and respect that made him feel like more than a guest. They were genuinely happy to see him.

  He and Kicking Bird settled down for a smoke that, because of constant but pleasant interruptions, lasted well into the afternoon.

  Word of Lieutenant Dunbar’s name and how he got it spread through camp with the usual astonishing speed, and any nagging suspicions the people might have harbored toward the white soldier evaporated with this inspiring news.

  He was not a god, but neither was he like any hair mouth they had encountered. He was a man of medicine. Warriors dropped by constantly, some of them wanting to say hello, others wanting nothing more than to lay eyes on Dances With Wolves.

  The lieutenant recognized most of them now. At each arrival he would stand and make his short bow. Some of them bowed back. A few extended their hands, as they had seen him do.

  There wasn’t much they could talk about, but the lieutenant was getting good with signs, good enough to rehash some of the recent hunt’s high points. This formed the basis for most of the visiting.

  After a couple of hours the steady stream of visitors trickled away to no one, and Dunbar was just wondering why he hadn’t seen Stands With A Fist, and if she was on the agenda, when Wind In His Hair suddenly walked in.

  Before greetings could be exchanged, each man’s attention was drawn to the items they had traded: the unbuttoned tunic and the gleaming breastplate. For both of them it was a subtly reassuring sight.

  As they shook hands Lieutenant Dunbar thought, I like this fellow; it’s good to see him.

  The same sentiments were foremost in Wind In His Hair’s thoughts, and they sat down together for an amicable chat, though neither man could understand what the other was saying.

  Kicking Bird called to his wife for food, and the trio soon devoured a lunch of pemmican and berries. They ate without saying a word.

  After the meal another pipe was packed and the two Indians fell into a conversation that the lieutenant could not divine. By their gestures and speech, however, he guessed they were deali
ng with something beyond idle chitchat.

  They seemed to be planning some activity, and he was not surprised when, at the end of their talk, both men stood up and asked him to follow as they went outside.

  Dunbar trailed them to the rear of Kicking Bird’s tipi, where a cache of material was waiting for them. A neat stack of limber willow poles was sitting next to a high pile of dried brush.

  The two men had another, even briefer discussion, then set to work. When the lieutenant saw what was taking shape, he lent a hand here and there, but before he could contribute much, the material had been transformed into a shady arbor four or five feet high.

  A small portion had been left uncovered to afford an entrance, and Lieutenant Dunbar was shown inside first. There wasn’t enough room to stand up, but once he was down, he found the place roomy and peaceful. The brush made good cover against the sun and was sheer enough to allow for a free flow of air.

  It wasn’t until he’d finished this quick inspection that he realized Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair had vanished. A week ago he would have been uncomfortable with their sudden desertion. But, like the Indians, he was no longer suspicious. The lieutenant was content to sit quietly against the surprisingly strong back wall, listening to the now familiar sounds of Ten Bears’s camp as he awaited developments.

  They were not long in coming.

  Only a few minutes had passed before he heard footsteps approaching. Kicking Bird duck-walked through the entrance and seated himself far enough away to leave a full space between them.

  A shadow falling across the entrance told Dunbar that someone else was waiting to come inside. Without thinking, he assumed it was Wind In His Hair.

  Kicking Bird called out softly. The shadow shifted to the accompaniment of tinkling bells, and Stands With A Fist stooped through the doorway.

  Dunbar scooted to one side, making room as she maneuvered between them, and in the few seconds it took her to settle, he saw much that was new.