The mistake was not his. It had been made by another and had slipped past without his seeing it. Ten Bears had merely compounded the mistake when he said, “The snow will break tomorrow.”
The snow was right. He should have listened to the snow in the first place. Ten Bears smiled and gave his head a toss. How simple it was. How could he have missed it? I still have some things to learn, he thought.
The man who made the error was standing next to him now, but Ten Bears felt no anger toward Dances With Wolves. He only smiled at the puzzlement he saw on the young man’s face.
Dances With Wolves found enough of his tongue to say, “Please . . . sit at my fire.”
When Ten Bears settled himself he gave the lodge a brief inspection, and it confirmed what his spinning head had told him. It was a happy, well-ordered home. He spread his robe, letting more of the fire’s heat inside.
“This is a nice fire,” he said genially. “At my age a good fire is better than anything.”
Stands With A Fist placed a bowl of food next to each man, then retreated to her bedside at the back of the lodge. There she picked up some sewing. But she kept an ear turned to the conversation that was sure to come.
The men ate in silence for a few minutes, Ten Bears chewing his food carefully. Finally he pushed his bowl to one side and coughed lightly.
“I’ve been thinking since you spoke at my lodge. I wondered how your bad heart was doing and thought I would see for myself.”
He scanned the lodge. Then he looked squarely at Dances With Wolves.
“This place doesn’t seem so bad-hearted.”
“Uhhh, no,” Dances With Wolves stammered. “Yes, we are happy here.”
Ten Bears smiled and nodded his head. “That’s how I thought it would be.”
A silence came between the men. Ten Bears stared into the flames, his eyes closing gradually. Dances With Wolves waited politely, not knowing what to do. Perhaps he should ask if the old man wanted to lie down. He had been walking in the snow. But now it looked too late to say that. His important guest seemed to be dozing already.
Ten Bears shifted and spoke, saying the words in a way that made it seem like he was talking in his sleep.
“I have been thinking about what you said . . . what you said about your reasons for going away.”
Suddenly his eyes flew open and Dances With Wolves was startled by their brightness. They were glittering like stars.
“You can go away from us anytime you like . . . but not for those reasons. Those reasons are wrong. All the hair-mouth soldiers in the world could search our camp and none would find the person they are looking for, the one like them who calls himself Loo Ten Nant.”
Ten Bears spread his hands slightly and his voice shook with glee. “The one called Loo Ten Nant is not here. In this lodge they will only find a Comanche warrior, a good Comanche warrior and his wife.”
Dances With Wolves let the words sink in. He peeked over his shoulder at Stands With A Fist. He could see a smile on her face; but she was not looking his way. There was nothing he could say.
When he looked back he found Ten Bears staring down at a nearly finished pipe that was poking out of its case. The old man pointed a bony finger at the object of his interest.
“You are making a pipe, Dances With Wolves?”
“Yes,”
Ten Bears held out his hands and Dances With Wolves placed the pipe in them. The old man brought it close to his face, running his eyes up and down its length.
“This might be a pretty good pipe. . . . How does it smoke?”
“I don’t know,” Dances With Wolves replied. “I haven’t tried it yet.”
“Let’s smoke it a while,” Ten Bears said, handing the pipe back. “It’s good to pass the time this way.”
CHAPTER XXXI
It was a winter for staying under the robes. Except for an occasional hunting party the Comanches rarely ventured out of their lodges. The people spent so much time around their fires that the season came to be known as the Winter of Many Smokes.
By spring everyone was anxious to move, and at the first breaking of the ice they were on the trail again.
A new camp was set up that year, far from the old one near Fort Sedgewick. It was a good spot with plenty of water and grass for the ponies. The buffalo came again by the thousands and the hunting was good, with very few men getting hurt. Late that summer many babies were born, more than most people could remember.
They stayed far from the traveled trails, seeing no white men and only a few Mexican traders. It made the people happy to have so little bother. But a human tide, one that they could neither see nor hear, was rising in the east. It would be upon them soon. The good times of that summer were the last they would have. Their time was running out and would soon be gone forever.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Blake is the author of numerous novels and screenplays, many of which highlight the history of the Native American. After writing Dances With Wolves as both a novel and a screenplay, he received numerous awards and accolades for his work—including the Academy Award, The Writers Guild Award, and the Golden Globe. Despite these great honors, he considers his greatest achievement the receipt of the Cancervive Award for battling—and beating—Hodgkin’s Disease. Michael Blake currently writes at Wolfhouse, his ranch in Arizona.
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Michael Blake, Dances With Wolves
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