Michael Blake - Dances With Wolves

Maybe I am dying, she thought as her eyelids began to lower, shutting down the last of the firelight. Just before she fell asleep she said to herself, It is not so bad.

But Stands With A Fist was not dying. She was recovering, and what she had suffered, once it was healed, would make her stronger than ever.

Good would be coming out of the bad. In fact, the good had already begun. She was lying in a good place, a place that would be her home for a long time to come.

She was lying in Kicking Bird’s lodge.

Lieutenant Dunbar slept like the dead, only vaguely aware of the spectacular show in the sky overhead. Rain punished the little sod hut for hours, but he was so snug and secure under the pile of army-issue blankets that Armageddon could have come and gone without his knowing it.

He never stirred, and it wasn’t until well after sunup, long after the storm had passed on, that the carefree, persistent singsong of a meadowlark finally brought him around. The rain had freshened every square inch of the prairie, and the sweetness of its smell was shooting up his nose before he could open his eyes. At first flutter he realized he was lying on his back, and when they opened he was looking directly over his toes at the hut’s entrance.

There was a flash of movement as something low and hairy ducked away from the door. The lieutenant sat up, blinking. A moment later the blankets were thrown aside and he was tiptoeing unsteadily to the entrance. Standing inside, he peered around the jamb with one eye.

Two Socks had just trotted clear of the awning and was turning around to settle himself in the sun of the yard. He saw the lieutenant and stiffened. They watched each other for a few seconds. Then the lieutenant rubbed at the sleep in his eyes, and when he dropped his hands, Two Socks stretched out prone, his muzzle resting on the ground between his outstretched legs, like a dutiful dog waiting for his master.

Cisco whinnied shrilly in the corral, and the lieutenant’s head jerked in that direction. He caught a simultaneous flash from the corner of his eye and turned back in time to see Two Socks galloping out of sight over the bluff. Then, as his eyes panned back to the corral, he saw them.

They were sitting on ponies, not a hundred yards in front of him. He didn’t make a count, but there were eight of them.

Two men suddenly started forward. Dunbar didn’t move, but unlike previous encounters, he held his ground in a relaxed way. It was in the way they were coming. The ponies’ heads were drooping as they plodded in, casual as workers coming home after a long, routine day.

The lieutenant was anxious, but his anxiety had little to do with life or death.

He was wondering what he would say and how he could possibly communicate his first words.

Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair were wondering exactly the same thing. The white soldier was as alien as anything they had ever met, and neither one knew how this was going to turn out. Seeing that blood was still smeared on the white soldier’s face didn’t make them feel any better about the meeting that was about to begin. In terms of roles, however, each man was different. Wind In His Hair rode forward as a warrior, a fighting Comanche. Kicking Bird was much more the statesman. This was an important moment in his life, the life of the band, and the life of the whole tribe. For Kicking Bird a whole new future was beginning, and he was sitting in on history.

When their faces were close enough to be distinct, Dunbar instantly recognized the warrior who had taken the woman from his arms. There was something familiar about the other man, too, but he couldn’t place him. He didn’t have time.

They had stopped a dozen feet in front of him.

They looked all lit up, resplendent in the glittering sunshine. Wind In His Hair was wearing a breastplate of bone, and a large metal disk hung around Kicking Bird’s neck. These things were reflecting in the light. There was even a glint coming off their deep brown eyes, and each man’s shiny, black hair was shimmering with sun streams.

Despite having just awakened, there was a certain sheen about Lieutenant Dunbar as well, though it was much more subtle than that of his visitors.

His crisis of the heart had passed, leaving him as the storm of the night before had left the prairie: fresh and full of vigor. Lieutenant Dunbar tipped forward in the suggestion of a bow and tapped his hand against the side of his head in a slow and deliberate salute.

A moment later Kicking Bird returned this overture with a strange movement of his own hand, turning it over, from back to palm.

The lieutenant didn’t know what it meant, but he interpreted it correctly as a friendly gesture. He glanced around, as if to make sure the place was still there, and said, “Welcome to Fort Sedgewick.”

What the words meant was a complete mystery to Kicking Bird, but as Lieutenant Dunbar had done, he took them for some kind of greeting.

“We have come from Ten Bears’s camp to make a peaceful talk,” he said, drawing a blank look of ignorance from the lieutenant.

Since it was now established that neither one would be able to converse, a silence fell over the two parties. Wind In His Hair took advantage of the lull to study the details of the white man’s buildings. He looked sharp and long at the awning, which was now beginning to roll in the breeze.

Kicking Bird sat impassively on his pony as the seconds dragged. Dunbar tapped his toe against the ground and stroked his chin. As time ticked away he grew nervous, and his nervousness reminded him of the morning coffee he’d missed and how much he wanted a cup. He wanted a cigarette, too.

“Coffee?” he asked Kicking Bird.

The medicine man tilted his head curiously.

“Coffee?” the lieutenant repeated. He curled his hand around an imaginary cup and made a drinking motion. “Coffee?” he said again. “To drink?”

Kicking Bird merely stared at the lieutenant. Wind In His Hair asked a question and Kicking Bird answered. Then they both looked through their host. After what seemed an eternity to Dunbar, Kicking Bird finally nodded his assent.

“Good, good,” said the lieutenant, patting the side of his leg. “Come along then.” He motioned them off their horses and waved them forward as he walked under the awning.

The Comanches trailed along cautiously. Everything their eyes fell on had an air of mystery and the lieutenant cut something of a ludicrous figure, fidgeting like a man whose guests had caught him off guard by arriving an hour early.

There was no fire going in the pit, but luckily he’d laid in enough dry wood for coffee. He squatted next to the pile of kindling and started making up the fire.

“Sit down,” he asked. “Please.”

But the Indians didn’t understand and he had to repeat himself, pantomiming the act of sitting as he spoke.

When they were down he rushed over to the supply hut and returned as quickly carrying a five-pound sack of beans and a grinder. Once he had the fire going, Lieutenant Dunbar poured beans into the rim of the grinder’s funnel and started cranking the handle.

As the beans began to disappear down the grinder’s metal cone, he could see that Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair were leaning forward curiously. He hadn’t realized that something so ordinary as grinding coffee could be magic. But it was magic to Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair. Neither one had ever seen a coffee grinder.

Lieutenant Dunbar was thrilled to be with people after all this time and was anxious for his guests to stay awhile, so he milked the grinding operation for all it was worth. Stopping abruptly, he moved the machine a couple of feet closer to the Indians, providing them with a clearer view of the process. He cranked slowly, letting them watch the beans descend. When there were only a few left he finished with a flourish, cranking with a wild, theatrical flair. Then he paused with the dramatic effect of a magician, allowing his audience to react.