Michael Blake - Dances With Wolves

“I had a good life with him. He went away from me because you were coming. That is how I see it now.”

She led him out of the clearing and they started back, clinging to each other as they walked. When they were within hearing of the faint voices calling from the village, they halted to listen. The main trail was just ahead.

With a squeeze of their hands the lovers slipped intuitively into the willows, and as if it would help them get through the coming night of separation, they came together again, making it fast as a hurried goodbye kiss.

A step or two more from the main path leading up to the village they stopped once more, and as they embraced, she whispered in his ear.

“I’m in mourning and our people would not approve if they knew of our love. We must guard our love carefully until the time comes for all to see it.”

He nodded his understanding, they hugged briefly, and she slipped through the undergrowth.

Dances With Wolves waited in the willows for ten minutes and then followed. He was glad to find himself alone as he shuffled up the hill to the village.

He went straight to his lodge and sat on his bed, staring through the lodge flap at what was left of the light, dreaming of their afternoon in front of the cottonwood.

When it was dark he lay back on the thick robes and realized that he was exhausted. As he rolled over he discovered the smell of her lingering on one of his hands. Hoping it would stay all through the night, he drifted off to sleep.

The next few days were euphoric for Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist.

There were constant smiles about their mouths, their cheeks were flush with romance, and no matter where they went, their feet seemed not to touch the ground.

In the company of others they were discreet, being careful not to show any outward signs of affection. So geared were they for concealment that the language sessions were more businesslike than ever before. If they were alone in the lodge, they took the chance of holding hands, making love with their fingers. But that was as far as it went.

They tried to meet secretly at least once a day, usually at the river. This they couldn’t help doing, but it took time to find absolute seclusion, and Stands With A Fist in particular fretted about being found out.

Marriage was in their minds from the beginning. It was something they both wanted. And the sooner the better. But her widowhood was a major stumbling block. There was no prescribed period of mourning in the Comanche life way, and release could come only from the woman’s father. If she had no father, the warrior who was her primary provider would take on the responsibility. In Stands With A Fist’s case, she could look only to Kicking Bird for her release. He alone would determine when she was no longer a widow. And it might take a long time.

Dances With Wolves tried to reassure his lover, telling her that things would work out and not to worry. But she did, anyway. During one fit of depression over this issue she proposed that they run away together. But he only laughed, and the idea was not brought up again.

They took chances. Twice in the four days after their coming together at the river she left Kicking Bird’s lodge in the darkness of early morning and slipped unnoticed into Dances With Wolves’s tipi. There they would lie together until first light, whispering their conversations as they held each other naked under the robe.

All in all they did as well as could be expected of two people who had surrendered completely to love. They were dignified and prudent and disciplined.

And they fooled almost no one.

Everyone in the camp who was old enough to know what love between a man and a woman looked like could see it in the faces of Stands With A Fist and Dances With Wolves.

Most people could not find it in their hearts to condemn love, no matter what the circumstances. Those few who might have taken offense held their tongues for lack of proof. Most important, their attraction was no threat to the band at large. Even the older, conservative elements admitted to themselves that the potential union made sense.

After all, they were both white.

On the fifth night after the meeting at the river, Stands With A Fist had to see him again. She had been waiting for everyone in Kicking Bird’s lodge to fall asleep. Long after the sounds of light snoring filled the tipi, she was waiting, wanting to make sure her leaving would go unnoticed.

She had just realized that the smell of rain was strong in the air when sudden yapping of excited voices broke the stillness. The voices were loud enough to wake everyone, and seconds later they were throwing aside bedding to rush outside.

Something had happened. The whole village was up. She hurried down the main avenue with a throng of other people, all of them heading for a big fire that seemed to be the center of attention. In the chaos she looked vainly for Dances With Wolves, but it wasn’t until she had pushed close to the fire that she could see him.

As they sifted through the crowd to one another she noticed new Indians huddled by the fire. There were half a dozen of them. Several more men were sprawled on the ground, some of them dead, some of them horribly injured. They were Kiowas, longtime friends and hunting partners of the Comanche.

The six men who were untouched were wild with fear. They were gesticulating anxiously, talking in signs to Ten Bears and two or three close advisers. The onlookers were hushed and expectant as they watched the Kiowa story unfold.

She and Dances With Wolves had nearly closed the space between them when women began to scream. A moment later the assembly came to pieces as women and children ran for their lodges, careening into each other in their panic. Warriors were boiling around Ten Bears, and one word was coming from the mouths of everyone. It was rolling through the village in the same way that thunder had begun to tremble through the black skies overhead.

It was a word that Dances With Wolves knew well, for he had heard it many times in conversations and stories.

“Pawnee.”

With Stands With A Fist at his side, he pressed closer to the warriors crowding around Ten Bears. She talked into his ear as they watched, telling him what had happened to the Kiowa.

They had started out as a small group, less than twenty men, looking for buffalo about ten miles north of the Comanche camp. There they were hit by a huge Pawnee war party, at least eighty warriors, maybe more. They’d been attacked in the afterglow of sunset and none of them would have escaped were it not for darkness and a superior knowledge of the countryside.

They’d covered the retreat as best they could, but with such a large army, it was only a matter of time before the Pawnee would locate this camp. It was possible they had moved into position even now. The Kiowas thought there would be a few hours at most to get ready. That there would be an attack, probably made at dawn, was a foregone conclusion.

Ten Bears began giving orders that neither Stands With A Fist nor Dances With Wolves could hear. It was clear from the old man’s expression, however, that he was worried. Ten of the band’s most distinguished warriors were out with Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair. The men left behind were good fighters, but if there were eighty Pawnee coming, they would be dangerously outnumbered.

The meeting around the fire broke up in a curious kind of anarchy, lesser warriors marching off in different directions behind the man they felt would best lead them.

Dances With Wolves had an uneasy feeling. Everything seemed so disorganized. The thunder overhead was coming at closer intervals and rain seemed inevitable. It would help to cover the Pawnee approach.