Michael Blake - Dances With Wolves

The “look at the river” turned into a long walk. The moon was nearly full again and he didn’t need the lantern as he treaded lightly along the bluff overlooking the stream.

He took his time, pausing often to look at the river, or at a branch as it bent in the breeze, or at a rabbit nibbling at a shrub. Everything was unconcerned with his presence.

He felt invisible. It was a feeling he liked.

After almost an hour he turned around and started home. If someone had been there as he passed by, they would have seen that, for all his lightness of step and for all his attention to things other than himself, the lieutenant was hardly invisible.

Not during the times he stopped to look up at the moon. Then he would lift his head, turn his body full into the face of its magical light, and the breastplate would flash the brightest white, like an earthbound star.

An odd thing happened the next day.

He spent the morning and part of the afternoon trying to work around the place: re-sorting what was left of the supplies, burning a few useless items, finding a protective way to store the meat, and making some journal entries.

All of it was done with half a heart. He thought of shoring up the corral again but decided that he would just be manufacturing work for himself. He’d already made work for himself. It made him feel rudderless.

When the sun was well on its way down, he found himself wanting to take another stroll on the prairie. It had been a blistering day. Perspiration from doing his chores had soaked through his pants and produced patches of prickly heat on his upper thighs. He could see no reason why this unpleasantness should accompany his stroll. So, Dunbar walked onto the prairie without his clothes, hoping he might run into Two Socks.

Forsaking the river, he struck out across the immense grasslands which rippled in every direction with a life of its own.

The grass had reached the peak of its growth, in some places grazing his hip. Overhead the sky was filled with fleecy, white clouds that stood against the pure blue like cutouts.

On a little rise a mile from the fort he lay down in the deep grass. With a windbreak on all sides, he soaked up the last of the sun’s warmth and stared dreamily at the slow-moving clouds.

The lieutenant turned on his side to bake his back. When he moved in the grass, a sudden sensation swamped him, one he had not known for so long that at first he wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

The grass above rustled softly as the breeze moved through it. The sun lay on his backside like a blanket of dry heat. The feeling welled higher and higher and Dunbar surrendered to it.

His hand fell downward, and as it did, the lieutenant ceased to think. Nothing guided his action, no visions or words or memories. He was feeling, and nothing more.

When he was conscious again he looked to the sky and saw the earth turning in the movement of the clouds. He rolled onto his back, placed his arms straight against his sides in the manner of a corpse, and floated awhile on his bed of grass and earth.

Then he closed his eyes and napped for half an hour.

He tossed and turned that night, his mind flitting from one subject to the next as though it were checking a long succession of rooms for a place to rest. Every room was either locked or inhospitable until at last he came to the place that, in the back of his mind, he knew he was bound for all the time.

The room was filled with Indians.

The idea was so right that he considered making the trip to Ten Bears’s camp that instant. But it seemed too impetuous.

I’ll get up early, he thought. Maybe I’ll stay a couple of days this time. He woke with anticipation before dawn but steeled himself against getting up, resisting the idea of a headlong rush to the village. He wanted to go without rash expectations, and stayed in bed until it was light.

When he had everything on but his shirt, he picked it up and slid an arm through one of the sleeves. He paused then, staring through the hut’s window to assess the weather. It was already warm in the room, probably warmer outside.

It’s going to be a scorcher, he thought as he pulled the sleeve off his arm.

The breastplate was hanging on a peg now, and as he reached for it, the lieutenant realized that he’d wanted to wear it all along, regardless of the weather.

He packed the shirt away in a haversack, just in case.

Two Socks was waiting outside.

When he saw Lieutenant Dunbar come through the door he took two or three quick steps back, spun in a circle, sidestepped a few feet, and lay down, panting like a puppy.

Dunbar cocked his head quizzically.

“What’s got into you?”

The wolf lifted his head at the sound of the lieutenant’s voice. His look was so intent that it made Dunbar chuckle.

“You wanna go with me?”

Two Socks jumped to his feet and stared at the lieutenant, not moving a muscle.

“Well, c’mon then.”

Kicking Bird woke thinking of “Jun” down there at the white man’s fort.

“Jun.” What an odd name. He tried to think of what it might mean. Young Rider perhaps. Or Fast Rider. Probably something to do with riding.

It was good to have the season’s first hunt ended. With the buffalo come at last, the problem of food had been solved, and that meant he could return to his pet project with some regularity. He would resume it this very day.

The medicine man went to the lodges of two close advisers and asked if they wanted to ride down there with him. He was surprised at how eager they were to go, but took it as a good sign nonetheless. No one was afraid anymore. In fact, people seemed to be at ease with the white soldier. In the talk he’d heard the last few days there were even expressions of fondness for him.

Kicking Bird rode out of camp feeling especially good about the day to come. Everything had gone well with the early stages of his plan. The cultivation was finally complete. Now he could get down to the real business of investigating the white race.

Lieutenant Dunbar figured he’d made close to four miles. He had expected the wolf to be long gone at the two-mile mark. At three miles he’d really started to wonder. And now, at four miles, he was thoroughly stumped.

They’d entered a narrow, grassy depression wedged between two slopes, and the wolf was still with him. Never before had he followed so far.

The lieutenant scissored off Cisco’s back and stared out at Two Socks. In his customary way the wolf had stopped, too. As Cisco lowered his head to chomp at the grass Dunbar began to walk in Two Socks’s direction, thinking he would be pressured into withdrawing. But the head and ears peering above the grass didn’t move, and when the lieutenant finally came to a halt, he was no more than a yard away.

The wolf tilted his head expectantly but otherwise stayed motionless as Dunbar squatted.

“I don’t think you’re going to be welcome where I’m going,” he said out loud, as though he were chatting with a trusted neighbor.

He looked up at the sun. “It’s gonna be hot; why don’t you go on home?”

The wolf listened attentively, but still he did not move.

The lieutenant rocked to his feet.

“C’mon, Two Socks,” he said irritably, “go home.”

He made a shooing motion with his hands, and Two Socks scurried to one side.

He shooed again and the wolf hopped, but it was obvious that Two Socks had no intention of going home.

“All right then,” Dunbar said emphatically, “don’t go home. But stay. Stay right there.”