Michael Blake - Dances With Wolves

But it was his village now, and he dashed after Stone Calf with only one thought in mind.

“I will follow you,” he said when he had caught up.

Stone Calf eyed him grimly.

“This will be a hard fight,” he said. “The Pawnee never come for horses. They come for blood.”

Dances With Wolves nodded.

“Get your weapons and come to my lodge,” the older warrior ordered.

“I’ll get them,” Stands With A Fist volunteered, and with her dress hitched up around her calves, she took off at a run, leaving Dances With Wolves to follow Stone Calf.

He was trying to calculate how many rounds he had for the rifle and his Navy revolver when he remembered something that stopped him in his tracks.

“Stone Calf,” he shouted. “Stone Calf.”

The warrior turned back to him.

“I have guns,” Dances With Wolves blurted. “In the ground near the white man’s fort there are many guns.”

They made an immediate about-face and returned to the fire.

Ten Bears was still questioning the Kiowa hunters.

The poor men, already half-crazed at the trauma of nearly losing their lives, shrank at the sight of Dances With Wolves, and it took some quick talking to get them calmed down.

Ten Bears’s face jumped when Stone Calf told him there were guns.

“What guns?” he asked anxiously.

“White soldier guns . . . rifles,” answered Dances With Wolves.

It was a hard decision for Ten Bears. Though he approved of Dances With Wolves, there was something in his old Comanche blood that didn’t fully trust the white man. The guns were in the ground and it would take them time to dig them up. The Pawnee might be close now and he needed every man to defend the village. There was the long ride to the white man’s fort to consider. And the rain would be coming any minute.

But the fight was going to be a close one, and he knew that guns could make a big difference. Chances were the Pawnee didn’t have many. Dawn was still hours away, and there was enough time to make the round trip to the hair-mouth fort.

“The guns are in boxes. . . . They are covered with wood,” Dances With Wolves said, interrupting his thoughts. “We will need only a few men and travois to bring them back.”

The old man had to make the gamble. He told Stone Calf to take Dances With Wolves, along with two other men and six ponies, four for riding and two for carrying the guns. He told them to go quickly.

When he got to his lodge Cisco was bridled and standing in front. A fire was going inside and Stands With A Fist was squatting next to it, mixing something in a small bowl.

His weapons, the rifle, the big Navy, the bow, the quiver stuffed with arrows, and the long-bladed knife, were laid out neatly on the floor.

He was strapping on the Navy when she brought the bowl to him.

“Give me your face,” she commanded.

He stood still as she daubed at the red substance in the bowl with one of her fingers.

“This is for you to do, but there is no time and you don’t know how. I will do it for you.”

With fast, sure strokes, she drew a single horizontal bar across his forehead and two vertical ones along each cheek. Using a dot pattern, she superimposed a wolf’s paw print over one of the cheek bars and stepped back to look at her work.

She nodded approval as Dances With Wolves slung the bow and quiver over his shoulder.

“You can shoot?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Take this then.”

He handed her the rifle.

There were no hugs or words of goodbye.

He stepped outside, jumped up on Cisco, and was gone.

They rode away from the river, taking the straightest line possible across the grasslands.

The sky was terrifying. It seemed as though four storms were converging at once. Lightning was flashing all around them like artillery fire.

They had to stop when one of the travois came loose from its rigging, and as it was being repaired, Dances With Wolves had a chilling thought. What if he couldn’t find the guns? He hadn’t seen the buffalo rib marker for a long time. Even if it was still standing where he’d driven it into the ground, it would be difficult to find. He groaned inwardly at his prospects.

Rain was beginning to fall in big, heavy drops when they reached the fort. He led them to what he thought was the spot but could see nothing in the dark. He told them what to look for, and the quartet fanned out on their ponies, searching the tall grass for a long, white piece of bone.

Rain was coming harder now, and ten minutes passed with no sign of the rib. The wind was up and lightning was flashing every few seconds. The light it threw across the ground was countered by the blinding effect it had on the searchers.

After twenty dismal minutes Dances With Wolves’s heart had hit bottom. They were covering the same ground now and still there was nothing.

Then, over the wind and rain and thunder, he thought he heard a cracking sound under one of Cisco’s hooves. Dances With Wolves called to the others and leaped down. Soon all four were on their hands and knees feeling blindly through the grass. Stone Calf suddenly jumped to his feet. He was waving a long, white piece of the rib.

Dances With Wolves stood in the spot where it was found and waited for the next bolt of lightning. When the sky flashed again, he glanced quickly at the old buildings of Fort Sedgewick and, using them as a landmark, began moving in a northerly direction, going step by step,

A few paces later the prairie went spongy under one of his boots, and he cried out to the others. The men dropped down to help him dig. The earth gave easily as they scooped and minutes later two long wooden cases of rifles were being hauled out of their muddy tomb.

They’d been under way only half an hour when the storm hit with full power, sending rain down in great, running sheets. It was impossible to see, and the four men shepherding the two travois across the plains had to grope their way back.

But with the importance of their mission uppermost in each man’s mind, they never paused, and made the return trip in amazing time. When at last they were in sight of the village, the storm had died down. Above it, a few long streaks of gray had appeared in the turbulent sky, and through this first feeble light of day they could see that the village was still safe.

They had just started down the depression leading to camp when a spectacular barrage of lightning struck upriver. For two or three seconds the bolts lit the landscape with the clarity of daylight.

Dances With Wolves saw it, and so did the others.

A long line of horsemen was crossing the river no more than half a mile above the village. The lightning struck again and they could see the enemy disappearing into the breaks. The plan was obvious. They would come from the north, using the foliage along the river to move within a hundred yards of the village. Then they would attack.

In perhaps twenty minutes the Pawnee would be in position.

There were twenty-four rifles in each crate. Dances With Wolves personally passed them out to the fighting men clustered around Ten Bears’s lodge while the old man gave last-minute instructions.

Though he knew that the main assault would be coming from the river, it was probable that they would send a diversionary force from the open prairie, thus giving the real attackers a chance to overrun the village from behind. He designated two influential warriors and a handful of followers to fight off the suspected charge from the prairie.

Then he tapped Dances With Wolves on the shoulder, and the warriors listened as he spoke.