The council did not stir for a minute or two and then, as spontaneously and mysteriously as a school of fish shifts direction, men began to rise and file out. No one talked because there was nothing left to say. Each warrior walked back to his lodge alone.
Chapter XL
The young men were especially troubled. They had planned and dreamed and striven all their lives for opportunities to prove themselves, but the perplexing rush of events that culminated in the most recent council denied them the chance to live fully. If there were no buffalo, how could anyone hunt? Or feed a family? Or have a family? If there were no horses to steal, how could a man grow rich? How could a man win honors if there was no enemy to fight? How could any young warrior just starting out aspire to membership in the Hard Shields? How could Hard Shields exist? What could a man do on a “reservation” except watch the sun go up and down? The questions haunted every young man, and that agony was felt by Smiles A Lot.
When he stepped into his lodge and Hunting For Something asked him what had happened, he said nothing. His mind was being pressured from all sides with pros and cons. To be a Comanche was suddenly a strangely confusing thing.
He stood with his back to her working loose the braid that attached the black cascade of horsehair to his head. when he had returned the decoration to its place of safety in an occasional bag, he walked to the fire and sat down, but still he did not speak.
Sensing that he should not be pressed, Hunting For Something waited patiently for him to come to the fire. Normally, he sat across from her but tonight he sat beside her, as if offering himself, and she knew he was ready to talk.
"Tell me," she said softly.
Smiles A Lot told of the ultimatum Lawrie Tatum had brought to the village and related what Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair had said in council.
"What will you do?" she asked.
"I am a Hard Shield. I will fight."
He had hoped she would embrace his decision but she said nothing.
He gazed at the bulge in her dress where the baby they had conceived was showing and stroked it lightly.
"Maybe you should go in," he whispered.
Hunting For Something shook her head.
“Are you sure?"
“Yes."
Taking her time, she stretched out on her side and laid her head in his lap while Smiles A Lot looked across the fire at the sleeping head ----- his little brother.
"I am going to send Rabbit with Kicking Bird," he said.
“He won't go." she retorted.
Smiles A Lot didn't argue because he knew she was right. Rabbit could never be induced to leave.
"What did Grandfather say?" she asked.
"He is going to meet the Great White Father."
Hunting For Something raised her head.
"The Great White Father?"
"Yes."
“Where will he meet him?"
"In the place called Washington."
"When?"
"I think they are going tomorrow He says he will die when he returns home."
Hunting For Something didn't move, but her husband felt a tensing in the parts of her body that touched him.
"I must see him," she said, her voice suddenly a whisper.
Then she got up, and, because the nights were turning colder with the advent of fall, she pulled a robe over her shoulders and wrapped it around her reedy frame.
She started out of the lodge, then hesitated, and looked back at Smiles A Lot.
"I might stay with him tonight."
Chapter XLI
Fatigue had so overwhelmed him that his body seemed to weigh nothing. He could imagine it as a cloud, suspended just above ground, and each time he drifted into the warm haze of unconsciousness, he saw himself in effortless ascent, a phenomenon of the psyche so compelling that it kept him half-awake.
But the old man knew that his tired body was not wholly to blame for keeping him from sleep; rather, it was his mind that made rest impossible. It was crackling with an energy that he would have been hard-pressed to describe. Disconnected ideas and images and statements and even entire scenarios appeared out of nowhere to glide through the portals of his mind, and all Ten Bears could do was watch helplessly as the spectacle went on and on.
From time to time he would-for how long he did not into the twilight edges of sleep, but he was constantly waking with eyes to some new entertainment, the latest of which was a dizzying series of moments from his boyhood, when he perceived the soft tones of a girl's voice whispering, "Grandfather." In his mind he could see her soft, unwrinkled lips moving as the word was formed.
The whispering would stop for a few seconds before the word came again, tunneling into his head like a call from afar.
When in addition to hearing the whisper he imagined he might be smelling the speaker's breath, Ten Bears suspected he might actually be awake. His eyes fluttered and opened. A form was in front of him. It was opaque and, because he was lying on his side, he could not tell if it was that of a man or a woman, but it seemed as if someone must be in the lodge with him.
"Grandfather?"
It was the same voice, and now Ten Bears was sure it belonged to a girl. With a grunt of acknowledgment, he pushed himself up on an elbow, at the same time opening the bony hand that clutched his spectacles.
Fumbling with the arms of the frame, he slipped the miraculous things onto his nose and the luminous eyes of his granddaughter stared down at him.
"Grandfather?"
"Hunting For Something."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm having difficulty sleeping tonight."
"I won't disturb you, then. . . ."
"No, no," the old man said, waving off the notion with his free hand. "I'm fine. Stay awhile. Spread your robe and lie down and we will talk. I'm tired of trying to sleep."
Hunting For Something did as he suggested. She laid the robe down like a blanket, stretched out, and, in imitation of her grandfather across the fire, propped herself on an elbow They looked like bookends.
"You like the cool air?" he asked.
"Yes . . . Are you going to that Washington?"
“Yes."
"Aren't you afraid they will kill you?"
"Noooo," Ten Bears laughed, "I'm to be a guest. I don't think even the whites kill their guests: I've never heard that they do that. Are you afraid for me, Granddaughter?"
"Maybe I should go with you," she said. "I could take care of you.”
"I think I'll have plenty of help. Kicking Bird is coming. I think Touch The Clouds is, too. And some Cheyenne and Arapaho men.”
"Will they make your pemmican?" she asked slyly.
"No," Ten Bears replied, laughing again, "but you can make up some for me to take."
Hunting For Something's affection for her grandfather was apart from what she felt for anything else. It was purer, and, with the simplicity of a lover, she nodded at him dreamily. She would do anything for her grandfather.
"When that's gone," Ten Bears continued jovially, "I guess I'll be at the mercy of white man food." Ten Bears raised his eyes in a comic, knowing way. "Whatever that is."
As they laughed together, Hunting For Something blurted out, "I would be afraid to eat white man food."
"I'm curious about it," Ten Bears said, smoothly shifting tone. "It's strange . . . a man with as many winters as I – all those seasons behind me – I am still wondering. I'm very curious to see what I can see in Washington with these new eyes."
Unable to resist the constant temptation, Ten Bears let his eyes roam the lodge, and he marveled at the clarity of objects and the shadows that shrouded them. While he was gazing, Hunting For Something's hushed voice came to him once more.
"I don't want you to cross the stars yet."
The old man swung his head back. He reached over and patted hand.
“The Mystery has been calling me for a long time. I have to answer.”
; "I want you to stay with us."
Ten Bears smiled.
"We will all be together someday."
Hunting For Something did not look reassured.
"You love the Mystery?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I have always loved the Mystery. In between birth and death is life, and I have tried to stay close to the Mystery for all of mine. There are only two times when a person is truly with the Mystery: birth and death. . . ."
He stretched out his elbow and laid the side of his head against the ground.
"My mother said I came out easily. I think I will go out of this life the same way." He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial hush. "I'm looking forward to it!"
She couldn't help but smile at her grandfather's intrepid enthusiasm. Her worries always seemed to melt in the warmth he radiated.
"Is that grandchild of mine kicking yet?"
"A little," she said. "It kicks hard. It must be a boy."
"If it kicks hard, it's probably a girl."
She laughed, but Ten Bears was only half-joking,
"I mean it," he said, "you were the only girl your mother had, and she always said, 'Hunting For Something kicked the hardest.'"
"I did?"
"Yes."
Hunting For Something pulled her robe aside and ran a hand over her belly. She pushed at the bulge with her fingers, but there was no response.
"Asleep," she announced, looking at him again.
Ten Bears stared at her belly, then lifted his eyes up toward her face. She was yawning.
"Has Smiles A Lot decided which path to walk? Is he going to take the white man's holy road?"
"He's going to stay out."
Ten Bears nodded.
"I thought that's what he would do. Keep together . . . you never know when you might need each other."
"We will, Grandfather," she said, yielding to another urge to yawn.
"Are you comfortable?" Ten Bears wondered.
"Yes, Grandfather," she answered, closing her eyes.
"Then sleep here tonight."
"Yes, Grandfather," she murmured.
Still, he could not sleep. He kept his glasses in place as he alternated between shadow and light. That way he could gaze whenever he wanted at the slumbering, fresh-faced flower of a granddaughter he loved so well.
Chapter XLII
By mid-morning of the next day all who had decided to go in with Kicking Bird pulled out. More than half the village trudged north for the country of the Kiowas and the unpredictable future awaiting them. There were many young. There were widows and a few widowers and a dozen prime warriors and their families. Ten Bears was last to fade from sight, his travois at the rear of the column racking the earth's every wrinkle.
It had been a bitter, wrenching departure, oddly devoid of all but the most poignant sound: a stifled shriek of agony or a sudden fit of muffled sobbing. People who were staying behind milled mutely through the slow-moving column as it left the village, reaching up to touch relatives and friends with trembling hands. When they were gone, people seemed stuporous as they tried to pick up the tasks of everyday life. Their hearts were dragging and tears were constantly being wiped away as moved about.
Even Wind In His Hair was weeping – to his surprise – and to clear his head, he jumped on a pony and galloped alone onto prairie for a distance of several miles before halting at the top of a little berm.
There he slipped off the pony, started a fire, and smoked in silence under graying skies that threatened rain. Seeing so many people go was difficult. He knew in his heart that he was nor likely to see them again. He also knew that with their leaving, Comanche sway over the domain they had controlled was broken.
But as he stared over a prairie whose surface was pierced here and there with the last, errant rays of the sun, the shock of separation began to recede, clearing space in his mind for contemplation of how he would defend his country.
Seventy strong warriors followed him but they would never be enough to fight the many soldiers corning out. As the first drop of rain struck his forehead, Wind In His Hair realized, that it would be well to be moving all the time. In that way soldiers might be kept off balance and contact with itinerant bands of people who might be absorbed into his force was more likely.
In the meantime, scouting parties would have to be sent out to keep an eye on the hair-mouth soldiers while the village went about the work of trying to make enough meat to see it through winter. Food was paramount, especially with the buffalo so scarce. Men could not fight long on empty bellies, and if children began to cry for food, all ears would be cocked in their direction.
The clouds were hanging close to the ground and rain was falling steadily when Wind In His Hair reentered the village. The wet and cold had driven the dispirited Comanches inside their lodges. He guided his pony to the center of the lifeless village and sat on his horse for a minute or two. He could hear no talk or laughter, not even the whine of a youngster and, hearing only the dismal cascade from above, it occurred to Wind In His Hair that the sooner the village shook off its lethargy, the better would be its chances for survival.
Within half an hour every warrior in the village was firing into his lodge, and when Wind In His Hair rose to speak, every face looked to him, yearning for guidance.
"Hear me now, Brothers,” he exhorted quietly. “We must turn ourselves inside out from this moment. Every warrior's heart must be brought out. We must cover our skins with bravery because from this moment we live only to defend our country.
"Myself and three others are all that is left of the Hard Shields. But I will not pick from among you to replace warriors who have been destroyed. From now on, all of you, and all who join us, will fight as Hard Shields."
Wind In His Hair had just told his listeners of the plan to move the village north and west, in search of meat, when the lodge flaps flew open and the rain-soaked heads of several women appeared. Each had a look of horror on her face and each was shrieking the same thing at once.
"White people! White people outside camp!"
Half-trampling each other, warriors spilled out of the lodge and scrambled over the muddy ground for their horses. As was his habit, Wind In His Hair had his pony tied immediately outside and he was one of the first to get mounted. The one-eyed warrior did not wait for a force to form behind him but galloped out of the village with a handful of others in the direction indicated by the frightened women.
The rain was driving across the grasslands in thick, waving sheets and it was hard to see anything. But a half mile out of camp, Wind In His Hair glimpsed the first ghostly outlines of four people on horseback.
He kicked his pony harder and the silhouettes ahead were just beginning to take shape when Wind In His Hair jerked at his pony's mouth and sat back. The horse's hind hooves planted in the watery earth and skidded to a stop. The warriors behind him halted too, peering intently through the rain at the figures a hundred yards ahead, reconfirming had caused Wind In His Hair to pull up.
The people weren't running away and they weren't coming forward. They were standing perfectly still and, for a moment, Wind In His Hair considered the alarming idea that they might be ghosts. The outlines ahead were shimmering through the rain in vaporous waves.
Overcoming the fear sparking at the base of his neck, he nudged his pony forward, and as he drew closer, Wind In His Hair discarded the idea of ghosts. The people were wearing white man clothes, and in the shrinking distance Wind In His Hair was momentarily caught up, trying to discern a few details of their appearance.
But when he swung his gaze again to the foremost of the riders the one who seemed to be a man, the features of his face suddenly came together. Peering out from under the dripping brim of the white man hat were a pair of unmistakable eyes.
It was Dances With Wolves.
Chapter XLIII
The return of those who had been given up for dead was universally accepted as a goo
d – and long-overdue – omen.
But the giddy first reaction was quickly replaced by doubts and speculations. What would Dances With Wolves, decision be? Could he possibly go in? How could he stay? When the white soldiers chased them, as they were sure to do, what would he do? His dilemma seemed intractable, and a few people came to the conclusion that he should leave.
Stands With A Fist was more withdrawn than people remembered, and even after the trauma of her captivity was taken into account, there were some who wondered at the integrity of her Comanche spirit.
The most jittery people in the village, people who worried constantly over their lives and bellies, looked at the Dances With Wolves children and saw the burden of three more mouths.
Stays Quiet had come home with a deep cough and a high fever but Owl Prophet, who had great skills in the application of medicine, quickly cured her. Yet there were still those who thought that it was a bad idea to have let anyone with a white man disease into the village.
Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist – and to a lesser degree, the children – could not help but sense the subtle shifts in attitude. He had felt it from the moment the village saw him in white man clothes. People had regarded him with a tangle of astonishment and confusion, and for a few minutes it was hard for them to believe he was speaking Comanche.
There were still traces of doubt and hostility when he counciled with Wind In His Hair and a dozen others the night he came back. He gave a brief review of his journey, and even though the men laughed heartily over humorous highlights of his adventure, a few left the distinct impression that they were uncomfortable to have him sitting among them.
Wind In His Hair told of the white ultimatum and Kicking Bird's departure with half the village, and even after he responded unflinchingly with the simple declaration that he was a Hard Shield, Dances With Wolves was certain that some who had seen him in the white man clothes were having a hard time seeing him any other way. Ironically, the only man he was certain regarded him as a brother was Wind In His Hair.