Michael Blake - Dances With Wolves

Kicking Bird was intrigued with the machine itself. He ran his fingertips lightly against one of the grinder’s slick wooden sides. True to his nature, Wind In His Hair found the crushing mechanism most to his liking. He stuck one of his long, dark fingers into the funnel and felt around the little hole at the bottom, hoping to find out what had happened to the beans.

It was time for the finale, and Dunbar interrupted these inspections by holding up a hand. Turning the machine around, he squeezed the little knob at its base between his fingers. The Indians bent their heads, more curious than ever.

At the last possible moment and in the way someone might reveal a fabulous jewel, Lieutenant Dunbar’s eyes widened, a smile sprang up on his face, and out came the drawer, filled with fresh black grounds.

Both Comanches were mightily impressed. Each took little dabs of pulverized beans and sniffed. Then they sat quietly as their host hung his pot over the fire and let the water come to a boil, awaiting the next development.

Dunbar served up the coffee, handing each of his guests a steaming black cup. The men let the aroma climb into their faces and exchanged knowing looks. This smelled like good coffee, much better than what they raided from the Mexicans for so many years. Much stronger.

Dunbar watched expectantly as they began to sip and was surprised when they screwed up their faces. Something was wrong. They both spoke a few words at once, a question, it seemed.

The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

The Indians held a brief but inconclusive conference. Then Kicking Bird had an idea. He made a fist, held it over the cup, and opened his hand, as if he were letting something drop into the coffee. He pretended to stir what he had dropped with a twig.

Lieutenant Dunbar said something he didn’t understand and then Kicking Bird watched as the white man jumped up, walked to the badly made house of earth, returned with another sack, and handed it around the fire.

Kicking Bird looked inside, grunting when he saw the brown crystals.

Lieutenant Dunbar saw a smile flicker on the Indian’s face and knew he had guessed right. Sugar was what they had wanted.

Kicking Bird was especially encouraged by the white soldier’s enthusiasm. He wanted to make talk, and when they introduced themselves, Loo Ten Nant asked for the names several times, until he could speak them in the right way. He looked odd and he did some odd things, but the white man was eager to listen and seemed to have large stores of energy. Perhaps because he himself was so inclined toward peace, Kicking Bird greatly appreciated the force of energy in others.

He talked more than Kicking Bird was used to. When he thought about it, it seemed the white man never stopped talking the whole time.

But he was entertaining. He did strange dances and made strange signals with his hands and face. He even did some impressions that made Wind In His Hair laugh. And that was hard to do.

Aside from his general impressions, Kicking Bird had found out some things. Loo Ten Nant could not be a god. He was far too human. And he was alone. No one else was living there. But he did not learn why he was alone. Nor did he learn if more white men were coming and what their plans might be. Kicking Bird was anxious for the answers to these questions.

Wind In His Hair was just ahead. They were riding single file along a trail winding through a stand of cottonwoods close by the river. There was only the mushy plop of the ponies’ hooves in the wet sand, and he wondered what Wind In His Hair thought. They had not yet compared notes on the meeting. It worried him a little.

Kicking Bird needn’t have worried, for Wind In His Hair was also favorably impressed. This despite the fact that killing the white soldier crossed his mind several times. He had long thought white men were no more than useless irritations, coyotes getting around the meat. But more than once this white soldier had showed some bravery. He was friendly, too. And he was funny. Very funny.

Kicking Bird looked down at the two bags, the coffee and sugar flopping against his horse’s shoulders, and the idea came into his mind that he actually liked the white soldier. It was a strange idea and he had to think about it.

Well, what if I do? the medicine man thought at last.

He heard the muffled sound of laughter. It seemed to be coming from Wind In His Hair. Again there was a laugh out loud and the stern warrior turned on his pony, speaking over his shoulder.

“That was funny,” he sputtered, “when the white man became a buffalo.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned back to the trail. But Kicking Bird could see Wind In His Hair’s shoulders bouncing to the beat of stifled giggles.

It was funny. Loo Ten Nant walking around on his knees, his hands growing out of his head for horns. And that blanket, that blanket stuffed under his shirt for a hump.

No, Kicking Bird smiled to himself, nothing is stranger than a white man.

Lieutenant Dunbar spread the heavy robe out on his bunk and marveled at it.

I have never seen a buffalo, he thought pridefully, and already I have a buffalo robe.

Then he sat down rather reverently on the edge of the bed, fell onto his back, and swept his hands across the soft, thick hide. He lifted one of the edges hanging over the bunk and inspected the curing. He pressed his face against the fur and savored the wild smell.

How quickly things can change. A few hours before, he’d been rocked off his foundations, and now he was floating.

He frowned slightly. Some of his deportment, that buffalo thing, for instance, might have gone overboard. And he seemed to have done most of the talking, perhaps too much. But these were tiny doubts. As he ruminated on the great robe, he couldn’t help but be encouraged by his first real encounter.

He liked both Indians. The one with the smooth, dignified manner he liked most. There was something strong about him, something in his peaceful, patient manner that was appealing. He was quiet but manly. The other one, the hot-tempered one who had taken the girl from his arms, was certainly nobody to fool with. But he was fascinating.

And the robe. They had given it to him. The robe was really something.

The lieutenant played back other remembrances as he relaxed on his beautiful souvenir. With all these fresh thoughts flying through his head there was no room and no inclination to delve into the true source of his euphoria.

He had made good use of his time alone, time he had shared only with a horse and a wolf. He had done a good job with the fort. All of that was a mark in his favor. But the waiting and the worrying had clung to him like grease in a wrinkle, and the weight of this load had been considerable.

Now it was gone, lifted by two primitive men whose language he did not speak, whose likes he had not seen, whose entire state of being was alien.

Unwittingly they had done a great service by coming. The root of Dunbar’s euphoria could be found in deliverance. Deliverance from himself.

He was no longer alone.

May 17, 1863

I’ve written nothing in this record for many days. So much has happened that I hardly know where to begin.

The Indians have come to visit on three occasions thus far and I have no doubt there will be more. Always the same two with their escort of six or seven other warriors. (I am amazed that all these people are warriors. Have not seen a man yet who is not a fighter.)

Our meetings have been highly amicable, though greatly hampered by the language barrier. Whatever I have learned to date is so little compared to what I could know. I still don’t know what type of Indians they are but suspect them to be Comanche. I believe I have heard a word that sounds like Comanche more than once.