guns, what would you do?”
Dances With Wolves quickly thought this over.
“I would hide in the village…” Cries of derision flew from the mouths of the warriors who
had been within earshot. Ten Bears quieted them with a raising of his hand and an
admonishment.
“Dances With Wolves has not finished his answer,” he said sternly.
“I would hide in the village, behind the lodges. I would watch only the breaks and not
those coming from the prairie. I would let the enemy show himself first. I would let the
enemy think we are fighting on the other side and that taking the camp will be easy. Then
I would have these men hiding behind the lodges jump out and shoot. Then I would have
these men charge the enemy with knives and skull crackers. I would drive the enemy into
the river and kill so many that they would never come this way again.” The old man had
been listening carefully. He looked out over his warriors and lifted his voice.
“Dances With Wolves and I are of the same mind. We should kill so many that they will
never come this way again. Let us go quietly.” The men moved stealthily through the
village with their new rifles and took up positions behind lodges that faced the river. Before
he took his place beside them, Dances With Wolves slipped into Kicking Bird's lodge. The
children had been herded under robes. Sitting in silence beside them were the women.
Kicking Bird's wives were holding clubs in their laps. Stands With A Fist had his rifle. They
said nothing, and neither did Dances With Wolves. He'd only wanted to see that they were
ready. He stole past the arbor and stopped behind his own lodge. It was one of the closest
to the river. Stone Calf was on the other side. They nodded at each other and turned their
attention to the open ground in front of them. It sloped for about a hundred yards before it
met the breaks.
The rain was much lighter, but it still served to obscure their view. Clouds hung thickly
overhead, and the half-light of dawn was almost no light at all. They could see little, but he
felt sure they were there. Dances With Wolves glanced up and down the line of tipis to his
left and right. Comanche warriors were packed in behind each one, waiting with their rifles.
Even Ten Bears was there. The light was stronger now. The storm clouds were lifting and
the rain was going with them. Suddenly the sun broke through, and a minute later steam
was rising off the ground like fog. Dances With Wolves squinted through the fog at the
breaks and saw the dark shapes of men, sifting like spirits through the willows and
cottonwoods. He was starting to feel something he had not felt in a long time. It was that
intangible thing that turned his eyes black, that turned on the machine that could not be
shut down. No matter how big, how many, or how powerful the men moving in the mist
were, they were nothing to fear. They were the enemy and they were on his doorstep. He
wanted to fight them. He couldn't wait to fight them. Gunshots rang out behind him. The
diversionary force had hit the small group of defenders on the other front. As the noise of
the fighting increased, his eyes checked the line. A few hotheads tried to break away and
run to the other fight, but the older warriors did a good job of holding them in check, and
no one bolted. Again he scanned the mists clinging to the breaks. They were coming up
slowly, some on foot, some on horseback. They were inching up the incline, shadowy,
roach-haired enemies dreaming of a slaughter. The Pawnee cavalry was behind the men on
foot, and Dances With Wolves wanted them at the front. He wanted the mounted men to
take the brunt of the fire.
Bring up the horses, he pleaded to them silently. Bring 'em up. He looked down the
line, hoping they would wait a few more seconds, and was surprised to see many eyes
riveted on him. They kept watching, as if waiting for a sign. Dances With Wolves raised an
arm over his head. A fluttering guttural sound came up the slope. It rose higher and
higher, blasting through the quiet, rainy morning, like hot air. The Pawnee were sounding
the attack. As they charged, the cavalry surged ahead of the men on foot. Dances With
Wolves dropped his arm and sprang out from behind the lodge with his rifle raised. The
other Comanches followed suit. The fire from their guns hit the horsemen at a distance of
about twenty yards, and as cleanly as a sharp knife cutting skin, it wrecked the Pawnee
charge. Men tumbled from their horses like toys shaken off a shelf, and those not actually
hit were stunned by the blistering concussion of forty rifles. As they fired the Comanches
counterattacked, streaming down through the screen of blue smoke to pounce on the
dazed enemy. The charge was so furious that Dances With Wolves crashed square into the
first Pawnee he met. As they rolled awkwardly on the ground he thrust the barrel of the
Navy into the man's face and fired. After that he shot men where he could find them in the
turmoil, killing two more in rapid succession. Something large bumped him hard from
behind, nearly knocking him off his feet. It was one of the surviving Pawnee war ponies. He
grabbed its bridle and swung onto its back. The Pawnee were like chickens being set upon
by wolves and already they were falling back, desperately trying to make the safety of the
breaks. Dances With Wolves picked out a tall warrior running for his life and rode him
down. He fired at the back of the man's head, but there was no report. Flipping the barrel
around, he clubbed the fleeing warrior with the butt end of the revolver. The Pawnee went
down right in front of him, and Dances With Wolves felt the pony's hooves strike the body
as they passed over. Just ahead of him another Pawnee, his head turbaned with a brign red
scarf, was picking himself off the ground. He, too, was going for the breaks. Dances With
Wolves kicked viciously at the pony's flanks, and as they pulled abreast of the runaway, he
threw himself at the turbaned man, taking him in a headlock as he slid from the pony's
back. Momentum sent them careening across the last of the open space and they slammed
hard against a large cottonwood. Dances With Wolves had the man by both sides of his
head. He was bashing his skull against the tree trunk before he realized that the warrior's
eyes were dead. A broken branch low on the trunk had skewered the Pawnee like meat. As
he stepped back from this unnerving sight, the dead man slumped forward, his arms
flopping pitifully against Dances With Wolves's sides as if he wanted to embrace his killer.
Dances With Wolves skipped back farther and the body fell flat on its face. In the same
instant he realized that the screaming had stopped. The fight was over. Suddenly weak, he
staggered along the edge of the breaks, picked up the main path, and trotted down to the
river, sidestepping Pawnee bodies as he went. A dozen mounted Comanches, Stone Calf
among them, were chasing the dregs of the Pawnee force up the opposite bank. Dances
With Wolves watched until the skirmishers disappeared from sight. Then he walked slowly
back. Coming up the incline, he could hear yelling. When he reached the slope's crest, the
battlefield he'd lately occupied opened wide to him.
It looked like a hastily abandoned picnic site. Refuse was scattered everywhere. There
were a great number of Pawnee corpses. Comanche warriors were moving among them
excitedly.
“I killed this one,” someone would call.
“This one still breathes,” another would announce, prompting the arrival of whoever
was close by to help finish him off. The women and children had come out of the lodges
and were scurrying down to the battlefield. Some of the bodies were being mutilated.
Dances With Wolves stood stock-still, too fatigued to retreat into the breaks, too repulsed
to move forward. One of the warriors saw him and then cried out.
“Dances With Wolves:” Before he knew it, Comanche fighters were all around him. Like
ants rolling a pebble uphill, they pushed him onto the battlefield. They were chanting his
name as they went. In a daze he allowed himself to be carried along, unable to
comprehend their intense happiness. They were overjoyed at the death and destruction
lying at their feet, and Dances With Wolves could not understand. But as he stood there,
hearing them shout his name, understanding came to him. He had never been in this kind
of fight, but gradually he began to look at the victory in a new way. This killing had not
been done in the name of some dark political objective. This was not a battle for territory
or riches or to make men free. This battle had no ego. It had been waged to protect the
homes that stood only a few feet away. And to protect the wives and children and loved
ones huddled inside. It had been fought to preserve the food stores that would see them
through the winter, food stores everyone had worked so hard to gather. For every member
of the band this was a great personal victory.
Suddenly he was proud to hear his name being shouted, and as his eyes focused again,
he looked down and recognized one of the men he had killed.
“I shot this one,” he yelled out. Someone shouted in his ear.
“Yes, I saw you shoot him.” Before long, Dances With Wolves was marching around with
them, calling out the names of fellow Comanche men as he recognized them. Sunshine
spilled across the village, and the fighters began a spontaneous dance of victory, exhorting
each other with back slaps and cries of triumph as they cavorted over the field of dead
Pawnee.
Two of the enemy had been killed by the force defending the front of the village. On the
main battlefield there were twenty-two bodies. Four more were found in the breaks, and
Stone Calf's team of-pursuers managed to kill three. How many had gotten away wounded,
no one knew. Seven Comanches had been wounded, only two seriously, but the real
miracle was in the number of dead. Not a single Comanche fighter had been lost. Even the
old men could not remember such a one-sided victory. For two days the village reveled in
its triumph. Honors were heaped on all the men, but one warrior was exalted above all
others. That was Dances With Wolves. Through all his months on the plains the native
perception of him had shifted many times. And now the circle had closed. Now he was
looked on in a way that was close to their original idea. No one came forward to declare
him a god, but in the life of these people he was the next best thing. All day long young
men could be found hanging around his lodge. Maidens flirted openly with him. His name
was foremost in everyone's thoughts. No conversation, regardless of subject, could nun its
course without some mention of Dances With Wolves. The ultimate accolade came from
Ten Bears. In a gesture previously unknown, he presented the hero with a pipe from his
own lodge. Dances With Wolves liked the attention, but he did nothing to encourage it. The
instant and lasting celebrity pressured the management of his days. It seemed that
someone was always underfoot. Worst of all, it gave him little private time with Stands
With A Fist. Of all the people in camp, he was perhaps the most relieved to see the return
of Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair. After several weeks on the trail they had yet to
engage the enemy when sudden and unseasonable snow flurries caught them in the
foothills of a mountain range. Interpreting this as a sign of an early and savage winter,
Kicking Bird had called off the expedition and they had flown home to make preparations
for the big move south.
If the party had any misgivings about returning emptyhanded, they were washed away
with the incredible news of the Pawnee rout. One immediate side effect of the homecoming
was that it reduced the heat of celebrity that Dances With Wolves had been subjected to.
He was no less revered, but because of their traditional high standing, much attention was
shifted back to Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair, and something approximating the old
routine was reestablished. Though he made no public demonstration, Kicking Bird was
astounded by Dances With Wolves's progress. His bravery and ability in repelling the
Pawnee attack could not be overlooked, but it was his progress as a Comanche, particularly
his mastery of the language, that moved the medicine man. He had sought only to learn
something of the white race, and it was hard, even for a man of Kicking Bird's experience,
to accept the fact that this lone white soldier, who months ago had never seen an Indian,
was now a Comanche. Harder to believe was that he had become a leader of other
Comanches. But the evidence was there for all to see: in the young men who sought him
out and in the way all the people talked. Kicking Bird could not figure out why all this had
happened. He finally came to the conclusion that it was just another part of the Great
Mystery that surrounded the Great Spirit. It was fortunate that he was able to accept these
rapid developments. It helped pave the way for yet another surprise. His wife told him
about it as they lay in bed on his first night back.
“Are you certain of this?” he asked, thoroughly confounded. “This is hard for me to
believe.”
“When you see them together, you will know,” she whispered confidentially.
“It is there for all to see.”
“Does it seem a good thing?” His wife answered this question with a giggle.
“Isn't it always a good thing?” she teased, squeezing a little closer to him.
First thing next morning Kicking Bird appeared at the celebrity's lodge flap, his face so
clouded that Dances With Wolves was taken aback. They exchanged greetings and sat
down. Dances With Wolves had just begun to pack his new pipe when Kicking Bird, in an
unusual display of bad manners, interrupted his host.
“You are speaking well,” he said. Dances With Wolves stopped working the tobacco into
the bowl.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I like to speak Comanche.”
“Then tell me… what is this between you and Stands With A Fist?” Dances With Wolves
nearly dropped his pipe. He stammered a few unintelligible sounds before he finally got
something coherent out.
“What do you mean?” Kicking Bird's face flushed angrily as he repeated himself.
“Is there something between you and her?” Dances With Wolves didn't like this tone.
His answer was framed like a challenge.
“I love her.”
“You want to marry her?”
“Yes.” Kicking Bird thought on this. He would have objected to love for its own sake,
but he could find nothing to disapprove of so long as it was housed in matrimony. He got to
his feet.
“Wait here in the lodge,” he said sternly. Before Dances With Wolves could reply, the
medicine man was gone. He would have said yes at any rate. Kicking Bird's brusque
manner had put the fear of God into him. He sat where he was.
Kicking Bird made stops at Wind In His Hair's and Stone Calf's lodges, staying about
five minutes in each tipi. As he walked back to his own lodge he found himself shaking his
head again. Somehow he had expected this. But it was still baffling. Ah, the Great Mystery,
he sighed to himself. I always try to see it coming, but I never do. She was sitting in the
lodge when he came in.
“Stands With A Fist,” he snapped, bringing her to attention. “You are no longer a
widow.” With that he retreated back through the lodge flap and went to find his favorite
pony. He needed a long, solitary ride.
Dances With Wolves hadn't been waiting long when Wind In His Hair and Stone Calf
appeared outside his door. He could see them peeking inside.
“What are you doing in there?” Wind In His Hair asked.
“Kicking Bird told me to wait.” Stone Calf smiled knowingly.
“You might have to wait awhile.” He chuckled. “Kicking Bird rode out onto the prairie a
few minutes ago. It looked like he was taking his time.” Dances With Wolves didn't know
what to do or say. He noticed a smirk on Wind In His Hair's face.
“Can we come in?” the big warrior asked slyly.
“Yes, please… please, sit down.” The two visitors took seats in front of Dances With
Wolves. They were smug as schoolboys.
“I'm waiting for Kicking Bird,” he said curtly. “What do you want?” Wind In His Hair
leaned forward a little. He was still smirking.
“There is talk that you want to get married.” Dances With Wolves's face began to
change color. In the span of a few seconds it went from a light rosy hue to the deepest,
richest red. Both his guests laughed out loud.
“To whom?” he croaked feebly. The warriors shared expressions of doubt.
“To Stands With A Fist,” Wind In His Hair said. “That's what we heard. Isn't that the
one?”
“She is in mourning,” he blubbered. “She is a-” “Not today,” Stone Calf interrupted.
“Today she has been released. Kicking Bird did it.” Dances With Wolves swallowed the frog
in his throat.
“He did?” Both men nodded, more serious now, and Dances With Wolves realized that
there was a legitimate move afoot to go forward with this marriage. His marriage.
“What must I do?” His visitors glanced around the nearly empty lodge with dour
expressions. They ended their brief inspection with a pair of sad head shakes.
“You are pretty poor, my friend,” said Wind In His Hair. “I don't know if you can get
married. You must give some things up, and I don't see much in here.” Dances With
Wolves looked around, too, his expression growing sadder by the second.
“No, I don't have much,” he admitted. There was a brief silence.
“Can you help me?” he asked. The two men played out the scene for all it was worth.
Stone Calf's mouth twitched noncommittally. Wind In His Hair dropped his head and
stroked his brow. After a silence that was long and agonizing for Dances With Wolves,
Stone Calf sighed deeply and looked him square in the eye.
“It might be possible,” he said.
Wind In His Hair and Stone Calf had a good day. They joked a lot about Dances With
Wolves, especially the funny expressions on his face, as they walked through the village
making deals for horses. Weddings were normally quiet occasions, but the uniqueness of
the bride and groom, uniting so close to the great victory over the Pawnee, had everyone
bubbling over with goodwill and anticipation. The people were eager to participate in the
novelty of taking up a collection for Dances With Wolves. In fact, the whole village wanted
to be part of it. Those with plenty of horses were happy to make a contribution. Even the
poorer families wanted to give up animals they could not afford. It was hard to turn these
people down, but they did. As part of a prearranged plan, contributors from all over camp
began bringing horses at twilight, and by the time the evening star had appeared, more
than twenty good ponies were standing in front of Dances With Wolves's lodge. With Stone
Calf and Wind In His Hair acting as tutors, the groom-to-be took the string of ponies to
Kicking Bird's lodge and tied them outside. The outpouring from his fellow villagers was
deeply flattering. But wanting to give something dear of his own, he unstrapped the big
Navy revolver and left it outside the door. Then he returned to his own home, sent his
tutors on their way, and passed a fitful night of waiting. At dawn he slipped outside for a
look at Kicking Bird's lodge. Wind In His Hair had said that if the proposal had been
accepted, the horses would be gone. If not, they would still be standing outside the lodge.
The horses were gone. For the next hour he made himself presentable. He shaved
carefully, polished his boots, cleaned the breastplate, and oiled his hair. He had just
finished these preparations when he heard Kicking Bird's voice call from outside.
“Dances With Wolves.” Wishing he were not quite so alone, the groom bent through the
doorway of his home and stepped out. Kicking Bird was waiting there, looking
extraordinarily handsome in his finery. A few paces behind him was Stands With A Fist.
Behind them the whole village had assembled and was watching solemnly. He exchanged
formal greetings with the medicine man and listened attentively as Kicking Bird launched
into a speech about what was expected of a Comanche husband. Dances With Wolves could
not take his eyes off the tiny figure of his bride. She stood unmoving, her head bowed
slightly. She was wearing the good doeskin dress with the elk teeth on the bodice. The
special moccasins were on her feet again, and around her neck was the little pipe-bone
choker. Once, as Kicking Bird spoke, she looked up, and when he saw the whole of her
striking face, Dances With Wolves was reassured. He would never tire of looking at her. It
seemed that Kicking Bird would never stop talking, but at last he did.
“Have you heard all that I have said?” questioned the medicine man.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Kicking Bird mumbled. He turned to Stands With A Fist and called her forward.
She came with her head still bowed, and Kicking Bird took her hand. He passed it to
Dances With Wolves and told him to take her inside. The marriage was made as they
passed through the doorway. After it was done the villagers broke up quietly and drifted
back to their homes.
All afternoon the people of Ten Bears's camp came in little groups to lay presents on
the newlyweds' doorstep, staying only long enough to drop off the gifts. By sunset an
impressive array of offerings was piled outside the lodge. It was like a white man's
Christmas. For the time being, this beautiful community gesture went unnoticed by the new
couple. On the day of their wedding they saw neither people nor their offerings. On the day
of their wedding they stayed home. And the lodge flap stayed closed.
Two days after the wedding a high council was held. The recent heavy rains, coming
late in the season, had renewed the withering grass, and it was decided to delay the winter
move in favor of the pony herd. By staying a little longer the horses would be able to put
on a few extra pounds, which might prove crucial in getting through the winter. The band
would dally another two weeks in their summer camp. No one was more pleased with this
development than Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist. They were floating
carelessly through the first days of their marriage and didn't want that special rhythm
interrupted. Leaving the bed was hard enough. Packing up and marching hundreds of miles
in a long, noisy column was, at the moment, unthinkable. They had decided to try to make
her pregnant, and people passing by rarely saw the lodge flap open. When Dances With
Wolves did emerge, he was relentlessly ribbed by his peers. Wind In His Hair was
particularly merciless in this teasing. If Dances With Wolves dropped, by for a smoke, he
would invariably be greeted with some salutation inquiring about the health of his manhood
or with mock shock at seeing him out of bed. Wind In His Hair even tried to saddle him
with the nickname One Bee, an allusion to his never-ending pollination of a single flower,
but fortunately for the new husband, the name didn't stick. Dances With Wolves let the
kidding slide off his back. Having the woman he wanted made him feel invincible, and
nothing could harm him. What there was of life outside the lodge was deeply satisfying. He
went hunting every day, almost always with Wind In His Hair and Stone Calf. The three had
become great pals, and it was rare to see one going out without the others. The talks with
Kicking Bird continued. They were fluent now and the subjects unlimited. Dances With
Wolves's appetite for learning far exceeded that of Kicking Bird's, and the medicine man
discoursed widely, on everything from tribal history to herbal healing. He was greatly
encouraged by the keen interest his pupil showed for spiritualism, and indulged that
appetite gladly. The Comanche religion was simple, based as it was on the natural
environment of the animals and elements that surrounded them. The practice of the
religion was complex, however. It was rife with ritual and taboo, and covering this subject
alone kept the men busy. His new life was richer than ever, and it showed in the way
Dances With Wolves carried himself. Without dramatics he was losing his naivete but not
surrendering his charm. He was becoming more manly without abandoning his spark, and
he was settling smoothly into his role as a cog without losing the stamp of his distinct
personality. Kicking Bird, always attuned to the soul of things, was immensely proud of his
protege, and one evening, at the end of an after-dinner stroll, he placed a hand on Dances
With Wolves's shoulder and said: “There are many trails in this life, but the one that
matters most, few men are able to walk… even Comanche men.
It is the trail of a true human being. I think you are on this trail. It is a good thing for
me to see. It is good for my heart.” Dances With Wolves memorized these words as they
were said and treasured them always. But he told no one, not even Stands With A Fist. He
made them part of his private medicine.
They were only a few days away from the big move when Kicking Bird came by one
morning and said he was going to take a ride to a special place. The round trip would take
all day and perhaps part of the night, but if Dances With Wolves wanted to go, he would be
welcome. They cut through the heart of the prairie, riding in a southeasterly direction for
several hours. The enormity of the space they'd invaded was humbling, and neither man
did much talking. Close to midday they turned due south, and in an hour's time the ponies
were standing at the top of along slope which fell away for a mile until it reached the river.
They could see the color and shape of the water far to the east and west. But in front of
them the river had disappeared. It was screened by a mammoth forest. Dances With
Wolves blinked several times, as if trying to solve a mirage. From this distance it was hard
to judge exact heights, but he knew that the trees were high. Some of them must be sixty
or seventy feet. The grove extended downriver for the better part of a mile, the hugeness
of it contrasting wildly with the flat, empty country on all sides. It was like the fanciful
creation of some mysterious spirit.
“Is this place real?” he said, half joking. Kicking Bird smiled.
“Perhaps not. It is a sacred place to us… even to some of our enemies. It is said that
from here the game renews itself. The trees shelter every animal the Great Spirit has
made. It is said they hatched here when life began and constantly return to the place of
their birth. I have not been here for a long time. We will water the horses and have a
look.” As they came closer, the specter of the woods became more powerful, and on
starting into the forest, Dances With Wolves felt small. He thought of the Garden of Eden.
But as the trees closed around them both men sensed that something was wrong. There
was no sound.
“It's quiet,” Dances With Wolves observed. Kicking Bird didn't reply. He was listening
and watching with the single-mindedness of a cat. The silence was suffocating as they
pressed deeper into the woods, and Dances With Wolves realized with a shiver that only
one thing could make this vacuum of sound. He was smelling its aroma. The taste of it was
on the tip of his tongue. Death was in the air. Kicking Bird pulled up suddenly. The path
had widened, and as Dances With Wolves looked over his mentor's shoulder, he was
staggered by the beauty of what he saw. There was open ground ahead of them. The trees
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