Michael Blake - Dances With Wolves

“You want this?” the lieutenant asked, the sound of his words wiping the glaze from Wind In His Hair’s eyes.

The warrior said nothing. He inspected his fingertip to see if anything had come off the button.

“If you want it,” the lieutenant said, “you can have it.”

He loosed the buttons, slipped his arms free of the sleeves, and handed it to the warrior.

Wind In His Hair knew it was being offered, but he didn’t take it right away. Instead he began to undo the magnificent breastplate of shiny pipe-bone that was tied at his neck and waist. This he handed to Dunbar as his other brown hand closed around the tunic.

The lieutenant helped with the buttons, and when it was on he could see that Wind In His Hair was as delighted as a kid at Christmas. Dunbar handed back the beautiful breastplate and was met with rejection. Wind In His Hair shook his head violently and waved his hands. He made motions that told the white soldier to put it on.

“I can’t take this,” the lieutenant stammered. “This is not . . . it’s not a fair trade. . . . You understand?”

But Wind In His Hair wouldn’t hear of it. To him it was more than fair. Breastplates were full of power and took time to make. But the tunic was one of a kind.

He turned Dunbar around, draped the decorative armor over his chest, and fastened the ties securely.

So the trade was made and each man was happy. Wind In His Hair grunted a goodbye and started for the nearest fire. The new acquisition was tight and it itched against his skin. But that was of little import. He was certain that the tunic would prove to be a solid addition to his supply of charms. In time it might show itself to possess strong medicine, particularly the brass buttons and the golden bars on the shoulders.

It was a great prize.

Eager to avoid the food he knew would be foisted on him were he to cut through camp, Lieutenant Dunbar stole onto the prairie and circled the temporary village, hoping he could spot Kicking Bird’s lodge and go straightaway to sleep.

On his second full revolution he caught sight of the lodge marked with a bear, and knowing that Kicking Bird’s tipi would be pitched nearby, he reentered the camp.

He’d not gone far when a sound gave him pause, and he stopped behind a nondescript lodge. Light from a fire was splashing across the ground just in front of him, and it was from this fire that the sound was coming. It was singing, high and repetitious and distinctly feminine.

Hugging the wall of the lodge, Lieutenant Dunbar peered ahead in the manner of a Peeping Tom.

A dozen young women, their chores behind them for the moment, were dancing and singing in a ragged circle close to the fire. As far as he could tell, there was nothing ceremonial involved. The singing was punctuated by light laughter, and he figured that this dance was impromptu, something designed purely for fun.

His eyes accidentally fell on the breastplate. It was lit now with the orangish glow of the fire, and he couldn’t resist running a hand over the double row of tubelike bones that now covered the whole of his chest and stomach. What a rare thing it was to see such beauty and such strength residing in the same place at the same time. It made him feel special.

I will keep this forever, he thought dreamily.

When he looked up again several of the dancers had broken away to form a little knot of smiling, whispering women whose current topic was obviously the white man wearing the bone breastplate. They were looking straight at him, and though he didn’t perceive it, there was a touch of the devil in their eyes.

Having been a constant subject of discussion for many weeks, the lieutenant was well known to them: as a possible god, as a clown, as a hero, and as an agent of mystery. Unbeknownst to the lieutenant, he had achieved a rare status in Comanche culture, a status that was perhaps most appreciated by its women.

He was a celebrity.

And now, his celebrity and his natural good looks had been greatly enhanced in the eyes of the women by the addition of the stunning breastplate.

He made the suggestion of a bow and stepped self-consciously into the firelight, intending to pass through without further interrupting their fun.

But as he went by, one of the women reached out impulsively and took his hand gently in hers. The contact stopped him cold. He stared at the women, who were now giggling nervously, and wondered if some trick was about to be played on him.

Two or three of them began to sing, and as the dance picked up, several of the women tugged at his arms. He was being asked to join them.

There weren’t many people in the vicinity. He wouldn’t have an audience looking over his shoulder.

And besides, he told himself, a little exercise would be good for the digestion.

The dance was slow and simple. Raise one foot, hold it, put it down. Raise the other foot, hold it, put it down. He slipped into the circle and tried out the steps. He got them down quickly and it was no time before he was in sync with the other dancers, smiling just as broadly and enjoying himself enormously.

Dancing had always been easy to embrace. It was one of his favorite releases. As the music of the women’s voices carried him along, he lifted his feet ever higher, picking them up and dropping them with newly invented flair. He began to drive his arms like wheels, involving more and more of himself in the rhythm. At last, when he was really going good, the still-smiling lieutenant closed his eyes, losing himself fully in the ecstasy of motion.

This made it impossible for him to detect that the circle had begun to shrink. It was not until he bumped the rump of the woman in front of him that the lieutenant realized how close the quarters had become. He glanced apprehensively at the women in the circle, but they reassured him with cheerful smiles. Dunbar went right on dancing.

Now he could feel the occasional touch of breasts, unmistakably soft on his back. His waist was regularly contacting the rump in front of him. When he tried to hold up, the breasts would press in again.

None of this was as arousing as it was startling. He’d not felt a woman’s touch in so long that it seemed a thing brand-new, too new to know what to do.

There was nothing overt in the women’s faces as the circle closed tighter. Their smiles were constant. So was the pressure of buttocks and breasts.

He was no longer lifting his feet. They were jammed too close together and he was reduced to bobbing up and down.

The circle fell apart and the women surged in against him. Their hands were touching him playfully, toying with his back and his stomach and his rear end. Suddenly they were brushing his most private spot, at front of his pants.

In another second the lieutenant would have bolted, but before he could make a move, the women melted away.

He watched them skip into the darkness like embarrassed schoolgirls. Then he turned to see what had frightened them off.

He was standing alone at the edge of the fire, resplendent and ominous in an owl’s-head cap. Kicking Bird grunted something at him, but the lieutenant couldn’t tell whether or not he was displeased.

The medicine man turned away from the fire, and like a puppy who thinks he may have done something wrong but has yet to be punished, Lieutenant Dunbar followed.

As it turned out, there were no repercussions from his encounter with the dancing women. But to his despair Dunbar found the fire in front of Kicking Bird’s lodge crowded with still-feasting celebrants who insisted he take first crack at the roasting ribs just coming off the fire.

So the lieutenant sat a while longer, basking in the good cheer of the people around him, while he stuffed more meat into his swollen stomach.