Michael Blake - Dances With Wolves

And the leader reminded the others that there was a tradition of captives becoming good Comanches, and there was always a need for more good Comanches.

The matter was settled quick enough. Those who were for killing her on the spot might have had the better argument, but the man who was for keeping her was a fast-rising young warrior with a future, and no one was eager to go against him.

She survived all the hardships, largely through the benevolence of the young warrior with a future whose name she eventually learned was Kicking Bird.

In time she came to understand that these people were her people and that they were vastly different from those who had murdered her family and friends. The Comanches became her world and she loved them as much as she hated the Pawnee. But while the hate of the killers remained, memories of her family sank steadily, like something trapped in quicksand. In the end, the memories had sunk completely from sight.

Until this day, the day she had unearthed her past.

As vivid as the recollection had been, Stands With A Fist was not thinking of it as she got up from her spot in front of the cottonwood and waded into the river. When she squatted in the water and splashed some on her face, she was not thinking of her mother and father. They were long gone, and the remembrance of them was nothing she could use.

As her eyes scanned the opposite bank, she was thinking only of the Pawnee, wondering if they would be raiding into Comanche territory this summer.

Secretly, she hoped they would. She wanted another opportunity for revenge.

There had been an opportunity several summers before, and she had made the most of that one. It came in the form of an arrogant warrior who had been taken alive for the purpose of ransom.

Stands With A Fist and a delegation of women had met the men bringing him in at the edge of camp. She herself had led the ferocious charge that the returning war party had been powerless to turn back. They’d pulled him from his horse and cut him to pieces on the spot. Stands With A Fist had been first to drive in her knife, and she’d stayed until only shreds remained. Striking back at last had been deeply satisfying, but not so satisfying that she didn’t dream regularly of another chance.

The visit with her past was a tonic, and she felt more Comanche than ever as she walked back on the little-used path. Her head was high and her heart was very strong.

The white soldier seemed a trifling thing now. She resolved that if she talked to him at all, it would only be as much as pleased Stands With A Fist.

The appearance of three strange young men on ponies was a surprise. Shy and respectful, they carried the appearance of messengers, but Lieutenant Dunbar was very much on his guard. He had not yet learned to tell tribal differences, and to his unpracticed eye they could have been anybody.

With the rifle tipped over his shoulder, he walked a hundred yards behind the supply house to meet them. When one of the young men made the sign of greeting used by the quiet one, Dunbar answered with his usual short bow.

The hand talk was short and simple. They asked him to come with them to the village, and the lieutenant agreed. They stood by as he bridled Cisco, talking in low tones about the little buckskin horse, but Lieutenant Dunbar paid them little mind.

He was anxious to find out what was up and was glad when they left the fort at a gallop.

It was the same woman, and though she was sitting away from them, toward the back of the lodge, the lieutenant’s eyes kept roving in her direction. The deerskin dress was drawn over her knees and he couldn’t tell if she had recovered from the bad leg wound.

Physically she looked fine, but he could read no clues in her expression. It was a shade sullen but mainly blank. His eyes kept going to her because he was sure now that she was the reason for his being summoned to the village. He wished they could get on with it, but his limited experience with the Indians had already taught him to be patient.

So he waited as the medicine man meticulously packed his pipe. The lieutenant glanced again at Stands With A Fist. For a split second her eyes linked with his and he was reminded of how pale they were compared to the deep brown eyes of the others. Then he remembered her saying “Don’t” that day on the prairie. The cherry-colored hair suddenly sprang at him with new meaning, and a tingling started at the base of his neck.

Oh my God, he thought, that woman is white.

Dunbar could tell that Kicking Bird was more than casually aware of the woman in the shadows. When, for the first time, he offered the pipe to his special visitor, he did it with a sidelong glance in her direction.

Lieutenant Dunbar needed help with the smoking, and Kicking Bird politely obliged, positioning his hands on the long, smooth stem and adjusting the angle. The tobacco was as harsh as it smelled, but he found it to be full of aroma. A good smoke. The pipe itself was fascinating. Heavy to pick up, it felt extraordinarily light once he began to smoke, as if it might float away if he eased his grip.

They puffed it back and forth for a few minutes. Then Kicking Bird laid the pipe carefully at his side. He looked squarely at Stands With A Fist and made a little flick of his wrist, motioning her forward.

She hesitated for a moment, then planted a hand on the ground and started to her feet. Lieutenant Dunbar, ever the gentleman, instantly jumped up and, in so doing, ignited a wild ruckus.

It all happened in a violent flash. Dunbar didn’t see the knife until she’d covered half the distance between them. The next thing he knew, Kicking Bird’s forearm slammed into his chest and he was falling backward. As he went down he saw the woman coming in a crouch, punctuating the words she was hissing with wicked stabbing motions.

Kicking Bird was on her just as quickly, twisting the knife away with one hand while he shoved her to the ground with the other. As the lieutenant sat up, Kicking Bird was turning on him. There was a fearsome glare on the medicine man’s face.

Desperate to defuse this awful situation, Dunbar hopped to his feet. He waved his hands back and forth as he said “No” several times. Then he made one of the little bows he used as a greeting when Indians came to Fort Sedgewick. He pointed to the woman on the floor and bowed again.

Kicking Bird understood then. The white man was only trying to be polite. He had meant no harm. He spoke a few words to Stands With A Fist and she came to her feet again. She kept her eyes on the floor, avoiding any contact with the white soldier.

For a moment each member of the trio in the lodge stood motionless.

Lieutenant Dunbar waited and watched as Kicking Bird slowly stroked the side of his nose with a long, dark finger, thinking things over. Then he muttered softly to Stands With A Fist and the woman raised her eyes. They seemed paler than before. And blanker. Now they were staring straight into Dunbar’s.

With signs Kicking Bird asked the lieutenant to resume his seat. They sat as they had before, facing each other. More soft words were directed at Stands With A Fist and she came forward, settling light as a feather a foot or two from Dunbar.

Kicking Bird looked at both of them expectantly. He placed his fingers on his lips, prodding the lieutenant with this sign until Dunbar understood that he was being asked to speak, to say something to the woman sitting next to him.

The lieutenant dipped his head in her direction, waiting until he caught a little slice of her eye.

“Hello,” he said.

She blinked.