Michael Blake - Dances With Wolves

He punctuated this with a wag of his finger and made an about-face. He’d just completed his turn when he heard the howl. It wasn’t full-blown, but it was low and plaintive and definite.

A howl.

The lieutenant swung his head around and there was Two Socks, his muzzle pointed up, his eyes trained on Lieutenant Dunbar, moaning like a pouty child.

To an objective observer it would have been a remarkable display, but to the lieutenant, who knew him so well, it was simply the last straw.

“You go home!” Dunbar roared, and he charged at Two Socks. Like a son who has pushed his father too far, the wolf flattened his ears and gave ground, scooting away with his tail tucked.

At the same time Lieutenant Dunbar took off at a run in the opposite direction, thinking he would get to Cisco, gallop off at full tilt, and ditch Two Socks.

He was tearing through the grass, thinking of his plan, when the wolf came bounding happily alongside.

“You go home,” the lieutenant snarled, and veered suddenly at his pursuer. Two Socks hopped straight up like a scared rabbit, leaving his paws in the sudden panic to get away. When he came to ground the lieutenant was only a step behind. He reached out for the base of Two Socks’s tail and gave it a squeeze. The wolf shot ahead as if a firecracker had gone off under him, and Dunbar laughed so hard that he had to stop running.

Two Socks skittered to a halt twenty yards away and stared back over his shoulder with an expression of such embarrassment that the lieutenant couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

He gave him a wave of goodbye and, still chortling to himself, turned around to find that Cisco had wandered back the way they’d come, browsing at the choicest grass.

The lieutenant started into an easy trot, unable to keep from laughing at the image of Two Socks running from his touch.

Dunbar jumped wildly as something grabbed at his ankle and then let go. He spun back, ready to face the unseen attacker.

Two Socks was right there, panting like a fighter between rounds.

Lieutenant Dunbar stared at him for a few seconds.

Two Socks glanced casually in the direction of home, as if thinking the game might be coming to a close.

“All right then,” the lieutenant said gently, surrendering with his hands. “You can come, or you can stay. I don’t have any more time for this.”

It might have been a tiny noise or it might have been something on the wind. Whatever it was, Two Socks caught it. He whirled suddenly and stared up the trail with his hackles raised.

Dunbar followed suit and immediately saw Kicking Bird with two other men. They were close by, watching from the shoulder of a slope.

Dunbar waved eagerly and hollered, “Hello,” as Two Socks began to slink away.

Kicking Bird and his friends had been watching for some time, long enough to have seen the entire show. They had been greatly entertained. Kicking Bird also knew that he had witnessed something precious, something that had provided a solution to one of the puzzles surrounding the white man . . . the puzzle of what to call him.

A man should have a real name, he thought as he rode down to meet Lieutenant Dunbar, particularly when it is a white who acts like this one.

He remembered the old names, like The Man Who Shines Like Snow, and some of the new ones being bandied about, like Finds The Buffalo. None of them really fit. Certainly not Jun.

He felt certain that this was the right one. It suited the white soldier’s personality. People would remember him by this. And Kicking Bird himself, with two witnesses to back him up, had been present at the time the Great Spirit revealed it.

He said it to himself several times as he came down the slope. The sound of it was as good as the name itself.

Dances With Wolves.

In a quiet way it was one of the most satisfying days of Lieutenant Dunbar’s life.

Kicking Bird’s family greeted him with a warmth and respect that made him feel like more than a guest. They were genuinely happy to see him.

He and Kicking Bird settled down for a smoke that, because of constant but pleasant interruptions, lasted well into the afternoon.

Word of Lieutenant Dunbar’s name and how he got it spread through camp with the usual astonishing speed, and any nagging suspicions the people might have harbored toward the white soldier evaporated with this inspiring news.

He was not a god, but neither was he like any hair mouth they had encountered. He was a man of medicine. Warriors dropped by constantly, some of them wanting to say hello, others wanting nothing more than to lay eyes on Dances With Wolves.

The lieutenant recognized most of them now. At each arrival he would stand and make his short bow. Some of them bowed back. A few extended their hands, as they had seen him do.

There wasn’t much they could talk about, but the lieutenant was getting good with signs, good enough to rehash some of the recent hunt’s high points. This formed the basis for most of the visiting.

After a couple of hours the steady stream of visitors trickled away to no one, and Dunbar was just wondering why he hadn’t seen Stands With A Fist, and if she was on the agenda, when Wind In His Hair suddenly walked in.

Before greetings could be exchanged, each man’s attention was drawn to the items they had traded: the unbuttoned tunic and the gleaming breastplate. For both of them it was a subtly reassuring sight.

As they shook hands Lieutenant Dunbar thought, I like this fellow; it’s good to see him.

The same sentiments were foremost in Wind In His Hair’s thoughts, and they sat down together for an amicable chat, though neither man could understand what the other was saying.

Kicking Bird called to his wife for food, and the trio soon devoured a lunch of pemmican and berries. They ate without saying a word.

After the meal another pipe was packed and the two Indians fell into a conversation that the lieutenant could not divine. By their gestures and speech, however, he guessed they were dealing with something beyond idle chitchat.

They seemed to be planning some activity, and he was not surprised when, at the end of their talk, both men stood up and asked him to follow as they went outside.

Dunbar trailed them to the rear of Kicking Bird’s tipi, where a cache of material was waiting for them. A neat stack of limber willow poles was sitting next to a high pile of dried brush.

The two men had another, even briefer discussion, then set to work. When the lieutenant saw what was taking shape, he lent a hand here and there, but before he could contribute much, the material had been transformed into a shady arbor four or five feet high.

A small portion had been left uncovered to afford an entrance, and Lieutenant Dunbar was shown inside first. There wasn’t enough room to stand up, but once he was down, he found the place roomy and peaceful. The brush made good cover against the sun and was sheer enough to allow for a free flow of air.

It wasn’t until he’d finished this quick inspection that he realized Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair had vanished. A week ago he would have been uncomfortable with their sudden desertion. But, like the Indians, he was no longer suspicious. The lieutenant was content to sit quietly against the surprisingly strong back wall, listening to the now familiar sounds of Ten Bears’s camp as he awaited developments.

They were not long in coming.

Only a few minutes had passed before he heard footsteps approaching. Kicking Bird duck-walked through the entrance and seated himself far enough away to leave a full space between them.

A shadow falling across the entrance told Dunbar that someone else was waiting to come inside. Without thinking, he assumed it was Wind In His Hair.