Michael Blake - Dances With Wolves

I know the names of my visitors but could not begin to spell them. I find them agreeable and interesting men. They are different as night and day. One is exceedingly fiery and is no doubt a leading warrior. His physique (which is something to behold) and his sullen, suspicious disposition must make him a formidable fighter. I sincerely hope I never have to fight him, for I should be hard-pressed if it came to that. This fellow, whose eyes are rather close-set but must be called handsome nonetheless, greatly covets my horse and never fails to engage me in conversation about Cisco.

We converse in made-up signs, a sort of pantomime which both Indians are starting to get the hang of. But it is very slow going, and most of our common ground has been established on the basis of failure rather than success in communication.

The fierce one dumps extraordinary amounts of sugar into his coffee. It won’t be long before that ration is exhausted. Luckily, I do not take sugar. Ha! The fierce one (as I call him) is likable despite his taciturn manner, rather like a king of street toughs who, by virtue of his physical prowess, commands respect. Having spent some time on the streets myself, I respect him in this way.

Beyond that, there is a crude honesty and intent which I like.

He is a direct fellow.

I call the other man the quiet one and like him immensely. Unlike the fierce one, he is patient and inquisitive.

I think he is as frustrated as I with the language difficulties. He has taught me a few words of their speech, and I have done the same for him. I know the Comanche words for head, hand, horse, fire, coffee, house, and several others, as well as hello and goodbye. I don’t know enough yet to make a sentence. It takes a long time to get the sounds right. I have no doubt it is hard for him as well.

The quiet one calls me Loo Ten Nant and for some reason does not use Dunbar. I am sure he doesn’t forget to use it (I have reminded him several times), so there must be another reason. It certainly has a distinctive ring . . . Loo Ten Nant.

He strikes me as being possessed of a first-rate intelligence. He listens with care and seems to notice everything. Every shift in the wind, every random call of a bird, is as likely to catch his attention as something much more dramatic. Without language I am reduced to reading his reactions with my senses, but by all appearances he is favorably inclined toward me.

There was an incident concerning Two Socks which aptly illustrates this point. It occurred at the end of their most recent visit. We’d drunk a substantial amount of coffee and I had just introduced my guests to the wonders of slab bacon. The quiet one suddenly noticed Two Socks on the bluff across the river. He said a few words to the fierce one and they both watched the wolf. Being anxious to show them what I knew of Two Socks, I took knife and bacon in hand and went to the edge of the bluff on our side of the river.

The fierce one was occupied with sugaring his coffee and tasting the bacon, and watched from where he sat. But the quiet one got up and followed me. I usually leave Two Socks scraps on my side of the river, but after I had cut away his ration, something got into me and I hurled it across the river. It was a good toss, landing only a few feet from Two Socks. He just sat there, however, and for a time I thought he would do nothing. But bless the old man’s heart if he didn’t walk over and sniff around the bacon and then pick it up. I’d never seen him take the meat before, and felt a certain pride in him as he trotted off with the goods.

To me it was a happy event and nothing more. But the quiet one seemed unduly affected by this display. When I turned back to him, his face seemed more peaceful than ever. He nodded at me several times, then walked up and put his hand on my shoulder as though he approved.

Back at the fire he performed a series of signs which I was finally able to discern as an invitation to visit his home on the next day. I readily accepted, and they departed soon after.

It would be impossible to give a full account of all my impressions of the Comanche camp. I should be writing forever were that the case. But I shall try to give a brief sketch in hopes that my observations may prove of some use in future dealings with these people.

I was met a mile out by a small delegation with the quiet one at its head. We proceeded on to the village without delay. The people had turned out in their best wardrobes to meet us. The color and beauty of these costumes is something to see. They were strangely subdued, and so, I must admit, was I. A few of the smaller children broke ranks and ran up to tap me about the legs with their hands. Everyone else held back.

We dismounted in front of one of the conical houses and there was a brief moment of doubt when a boy of about twelve ran up and tried to lead Cisco away. We had a short tug-of-war with the bridle, but the quiet one interceded. Again he placed a hand on my shoulder and the look in his eyes told me I had nothing to fear. I let the boy take Cisco away. He seemed delighted.

Then the quiet one showed me into his abode. The place was dark but not uncheerful. It smelled of smoke and meat. (The entire village has a distinct odor which I find not distasteful. As close as I can describe it, it is the smell of a wild life.) There were two women and several children inside. The quiet one bade me to sit down, and the women brought food in bowls. Everyone disappeared then, leaving us alone.

We ate in silence for a time. I thought of making inquiries about the girl I found on the prairie. I had not seen her and whether she still lived, I did not know. (I still do not know.) But it seemed far too complicated a subject considering our limitations, so we talked as best we could about the food (a kind of sweet meat I found delicious).

When we had finished I made a cigarette and smoked it while the quiet one sat across from me. His attention was constantly diverted to the entrance. I felt sure we were waiting for someone or something. My assumption was correct, for it was not long before the flap of hide opened and two Indians appeared. They spoke something to the quiet one and he immediately rose, making a sign for me to follow.

A considerable crowd of onlookers was waiting outside, and I was jostled in the crush of humanity as we made our way past several other homes before stopping at one which was decorated with a large, solid-colored bear. Here I was pushed gently inside by the quiet one. There were five older men sitting in a rough circle around the customary fire pit, but my gaze fell immediately on the oldest among them. He was a powerfully built man whom I guessed to be past sixty though still remarkably fit. His leather shirt was adorned with beadwork of intricate beauty, the designs being precise and colorful. Attached to a lock of his graying hair was a huge claw, which I judged, owing to the design outside, had once belonged to a bear. Hair was hanging at intervals along his shirtsleeves, and I realized a moment later that these must be scalps. One of them was light brown. That was unsettling.

But the most salient feature of all was his face. Never have I seen such a face. His eyes were of a brightness that might only be compared to fever. His cheekbones were extremely high and round, and his nose was curved like a beak. His chin was very square. Lines ran in such heavy profusion along the skin of his face that to call them wrinkles hardly seems adequate. They were on the order of crevices. One side of his forehead carried a distinct dent, probably the result of some long-ago battle injury. He was altogether a stunning image of aged wisdom and strength. But for all this I never felt threatened during my short stay.