He was sitting in front of the fire but only looked at her from the corner of his eye.
Unable to wait any longer, she stood and faced him with folded arms.
"What has happened?" she demanded quietly.
"Sit down," he said, indicating a spot across the fire.
She sat and waited. Dances With Wolves' eyes shifted restlessly.
"What?" she asked again.
"Touch The Clouds was out there. I saw him."
"Is he well?'
"His mind is stirred up. It is the same with all the Kiowas."
"Why?"
Once more Dances With Wolves dropped his eyes to the fire. Then he looked up, trying to speak calmly.
"There are white soldiers coming into the country of the Kiowa – many white soldiers."
Stands With A Fist's eyes widened but she didn't move. It was if she had stopped breathing.
"They are making a soldier fort near the great Medicine Bluff.”
Stands With A Fist only blinked. She still could not move nor could she speak. She sat enveloped in a cocoon of blinding shock. The world seemed to have collapsed onto her meager shoulders and she was so powerless under its weight that the generation of something as small as a tear was impossible.
"The whites want the Kiowa to come in and live in small places. They are promising to feed people and take care of them if they will come into these places called reservations and stop making war. The whites are saying that if this is not done they will war against the Kiowa."
He looked to her for a response but saw the same dead stare in a pair of eyes fixed so completely on the moment that they were mindful of a look he had seen many times: the upturned face of a corpse gazing into eternity.
Dances With Wolves was reeling too, but his role as messenger drove him on. The words flowed out of him, and though he flattened them as best he could, they could not be changed.
"Other whites, called 'agents,' are there. They want to talk. They say they want to be friends, protectors to all the tribes. They are saying all will be well if people come in. Touch The Clouds smoked the pipe with me. His words are true."
Struggling, Stands With A Fist made a few words. Her mouth was trembling.
"What will Touch The Clouds do?"
“He doesn't know."
At last she moved, lowering her face for a moment, her lips quivering. She mechanically lifted her face to his and spoke again.
"What will we do?"
Dances With Wolves shook his head slowly.
"I don't know."
He started to get up and she jerked to life.
"Don't leave. Don't go now."
Dances With Wolves stepped over the fire, placed his hands under her arms, and lifted her.
"We will always be one," he whispered, guiding her gently toward the bed, where the children slept. He raised the robe and tucked her inside. Instinctively, she groped with closed eyes, pulling the bodies of her young close as Dances With Wolves knelt next to the bed.
"Sleep with our children," he said softly. "I will be with you, but I have to tell the Hard Shields this news."
"They are all at Wind In His Hair's," she mumbled, eyes still shut.
She turned her face and buried it in the familiar odors of her bed and children. She did not hear her husband's soft footfalls. Nor did she hear the flap slap against her home as he stepped into the night. She was already far away, cut off from fear and trouble, deep in the tiny world of her bed and the little beings she had brought to life. In seconds she had succumbed to the self-administered drug of the only place she felt safe, and as she slipped into unconsciousness, Stands with A Fist imagined a sleep that would carry her and the little world she now occupied far beyond the stars on the long drift into eternity.
Dances With Wolves had intended to alert Kicking Bird first, but on the way to his lodge he encountered several warriors who, seeing his agitation, inquired what errand he might be on. When he told them of the need for a council they naturally persisted in asking why and he had no choice but to report that there were white soldiers in the country of the Kiowas.
At that moment a fast-running, inextinguishable firestorm of alarm burned through every lodge in camp. By the time Dances With Wolves had roused Ten Bears, his simple pronouncement that white soldiers were in the country of the Kiowas had mushroomed into the popular belief that blue-coated soldiers were about to ring the village.
Warriors from every corner of camp were streaming into Kicking Bird's special lodge. Women and children were milling about in anxious confusion. The Hard Shields had suspended their own meeting to investigate the confusion, and when Dances With Wolves and Ten Bears pushed into the mass of men already assembled at Kicking Bird's they were greeted with the kind of chaos that would lead a casual observer to conclude that the sky was about to fall.
It was fortunate that Ten Bears still lived, for the respect his presence demanded calmed the inflamed crowd of warriors long enough to bring them under control. As room was made for Ten Bears' place of prominence at the fire, warriors who could find a patch of ground to sit on followed suit, their excitement diminishing in the process. Ten Bears drew out his pipe and smoked, wisely waiting for silence before allowing the council to begin.
At last he passed the pipe around the first circle and by the time it came back to the old man all was quiet. Ten Bears looked across the fire at Dances With Wolves.
"Tell us what You have heard."
He told of his meeting with Touch The Clouds and the mention of such a warrior sharpened the attention of all present. But by the time Dances With Wolves had finished his report, the excitement mounting in the lodge threatened to explode. Young warriors shouted out that they would take the trail against the whites that night. Their passion was infectious and every soul who heard them was stirred try their zeal.
But as Wind In His Hair rose to speak everyone quieted. Regardless of their courage, young warriors had no real standing. This warrior did, and everyone wanted to hear what he had to say.
Wind In His Hair had learned that when one had true power it was not necessary to use it loudly. Though there were still inflections of his hallmark impulsiveness, Wind In His Hair spoke only a little above a whisper, the sweeping grace of his gestures a marked contrast to the gruesome disfigurement of his face. The single eye still burned, however, reminding all who saw him that Wind In His Hair was indomitable.
"We always knew the whites would come this way. The Cheyenne, now the Kiowa . . . the Comanche next. Comanche always throw back the enemy. That is all I have to say."
This declaration was supported by ringing cheers, but they soon died down. Other strong men had to be heard. Kicking Bird, as was his custom, stayed seated, directing what he had to say toward the leading men in the first circle.
"What Wind In His Hair says is true," he began. "Comanches throw back their enemies and make them cry. But these are not the Utes or the Pawnee. This enemy is different. When the Utes and the Pawnee get whipped they go home and do not come back for a long time. For every white soldier we have killed, two more come in his place. Every Comanche knows that it is foolish to fight if you cannot win."
Kicking Bird stopped speaking, and a somber air settled over the meeting.
"Kicking Bird's talk is good," Horned Antelope said. "But look at what the whites are doing to the buffalo. Do they see Comanches differently? I say no."
A Hard Shield named Red Jacket jumped to his feet. "The whites say one thing then they do another," he shouted.
The crowd parted as Milky Way pushed his way to the fire. The sad-faced warrior, though nearing fifty, was still regarded as a vital man.
"All this talk is right," he said, chopping the air with a fist. "Every Comanche might die if we make a big war on these people. Milky Way is not afraid to die. I worry for my children. I do not want them to wander hungry. I do not want them to die of want. Milky Way does not mind killing white soldiers,
but I wonder how many."
For more than an hour men stepped forward to speak what was in their hearts, and each eloquent confession, no matter the course of action it favored, was brimming with anguish.
When it seemed that every man in the lodge had spoken, Dances With Wolves rose.
"I have not much to say for Dances With Wolves. His brothers have spoken for him tonight. Dances With Wolves is not afraid of Comanche enemies. He loves the Comanche and wants them safe."
He turned his face toward Ten Bears' then hesitated. The old man's head was drooping. His eyes were closed. It looked like he was asleep. Dances With Wolves feared that if he asked a question Ten Bears might not answer, and for a moment longer he hesitated. But all eyes were on him.
"What is in the mind of Ten Bears?"
Ten Bears did not move and the lodge held its breath in the stillness. Slowly, he lifted his head. He placed one weathered hand on the earthen floor and started to push. The arms of those around him came to his aid, steadying his ascent and settling him on his feet before they fell away.
Ten Bears coughed into his hand.
"I have thought a long time. It would be good to wake tomorrow and find that all the whites have gone back into the earth . . . or that the sun has burned them up.”
Laughter rolled through the lodge and an ease that had been absent from the start spread over the meeting.
"I do not think they will go away. I do not think Comanches will stop behaving like Comanches, either. Every man here has told what is in his heart. We are not of one mind, and that is neither bad nor good. In the way it has always been, each man will decide what is best for him."
He stretched a thin arm and wagged his fingers. "What is best for you, Wind In His Hair?"
"Wind In His Hair will lead a party of strong-hearted warriors to the country of the Kiowas. We will see what can be done to help them. If they want me to fight, I will."
Ten Bears nodded toward Kicking Bird.
"I, too, will visit the Kiowas. If the whites want to fight I will fight. If they want to parley, my ears will be eager to hear their words."
The support for Wind In His Hair was loud and clear, yet there were many murmurs of assent for Kicking Bird's position, too.
Ten Bears focused his glassy eyes on Dances With Wolves.
"I go to hunt," he said firmly. "There is little food here. A warrior must make meat."
Ten Bears bobbed his head as if he approved. Then he glanced slowly about until his eyes found Owl Prophet. The medicine man had been silent all night but now he got up. Whatever might be read in a man's face was hidden behind his lidded eyes.
"Only the Mystery knows our fate. The Mystery is not ready to speak. I will stay in camp and listen. If the Mystery says anything, I will tell it."
Owl Prophet's words, though not conclusive, were an apt end to a council that had produced no answers, only declarations. The men who had been present filed out into the night with little trace of the bounding exuberance or staunch comradeship that signals unity.
Few warriors returned to their homes and families that night with their minds made up. Each was leaning toward one path or another, but it would have been a mistake to interpret their uncertainty as weakness.
The knowledge that their common fate had finally commenced gave them strength. They were no longer frozen in the clutches of what might come to pass. The time had come for each man to decide. By coming in force to the country of their neighbors the whites had issued a clear challenge, and to meet a clear challenge was what every Comanche warrior had been trained to do. What the final outcome might be was, for the moment, not so important as standing up and every warrior in camp was primed for action.
At that moment the Comanches remained confident of their power.
Chapter XIII
Though he had never seen the Medicine Bluff he had been in the vicinity on several occasions and knew it resided somewhere in a string of queer, misshapen hills that rose out of the grassland on the eastern edge of the Kiowa territory. It was said to be the largest of the hills, no more than a mile in length, each end gently sloping upward to resolve in a distinctive hump that marked its center.
He did not doubt that he would find it. As he left camp with his ponies trailing behind, a mantle of confidence unlike any he had experienced before settled over him. Perhaps it was the freedom he felt in taking action. His ears and nose and eyes all seemed keener, and in the many miles he logged every ripple in the landscape stood out and every faint odor on the breeze seemed to speak to his nose. Even the footfalls of each pony, sounds he had always taken for granted, seemed separate and distinct.
When Smiles A Lot reached the region of the strange hills, on the afternoon of his fourth day out, he crossed and recrossed a shallow, winding creek as if guided by forces beyond his understanding, until suddenly he found himself facing a long, wide incline dotted with a few scrub oaks. The land pushed up before him and at its apex a smoothly formed hump stood out against the sky.
The winding creek flowed languidly at the base of the odd hill and he hobbled his ponies in its cover. He drank long and deep from the cool waters of the stream before setting off with a clump of sage, two pieces of flint, and the clothes on his back.
The day was fair and the climb so easy that his breathing was hardly labored by the time he reached the top. No trees of any kind grew at the summit and the ground was as smooth as it had appeared at a distance. Then the earth suddenly gave way as if it had been sheared and when Smiles A Lot peered down the drop-off was straight and steep as any true cliff, falling a hundred and fifty feet to the meandering creek that encircled the bluff. Looking from side to side, he could see that the claw-like marks Owl Prophet had described etched the whole of the formation's rock face.
Heights had never appealed much to Smiles A Lot. In the few times he had sat in the high limbs of a cottonwood, he felt a certain turning in his stomach and an instantaneous weakening of his arms and legs. He felt the same things now. Standing at the edge of the precipice, he felt his stomach climbing into his throat and his knees quivering, But the sensations were fleeting in comparison to the whole of his spirit, which seemed to have been grasped and flung into the ecstatic space ahead.
The horizon stretched before him in limitless glory so dazzling that for a time he was uncertain if he was still standing on the earth. The breeze rushed against his body in busy, little eddies, leaving in its wake a silence so profound that for a moment he imagined himself arrived at the top of the world. Without meditation he spontaneously raised his arms skyward in supplication.
At the same time he closed his eyes and immediately his head began to spin. Fearful that he might reel and fall, he tottered back, settling effortlessly on the ground. There he lay for several minutes, staring straight up. With the earth pressing against him and the sky looming over him, Smiles A Lot, for the first time in his short life, imagined that all he needed to know about existence was to know the place he now occupied, between the earth and sky.
When his rapture subsided, Smiles A Lot roused himself and set to work. He cleared a small patch of ground near the edge of the bluff and plucked a few handfuls of dry grass. Then he struck his flints until one of the sparks ignited the fuel. When tiny flames appeared he lit the tightly bound sage and passed the bundle over himself from head to toe and, satisfied that he was chaste in the eyes of the Mystery sat cross-legged on the ground. Owl Prophet had given him the barest of instructions. To sit and wait was all he had been told. But Smiles A Lot did not feel the slightest sense of bewilderment or apprehension or trepidation. He knew he was in the right place.
Halfway through his first full day at the top of the world his thirst became unbearable and he waited out the hours, fighting back the desire for water. The compulsion for relief became so great that he thought he might die. Then, by some miracle of will, it began to recede, until at last his thirst became a part of him, as common as breathing or feeling. The sam
e thing happened with his hunger. At the end of his second day it, too, became so much a part of him that he no longer knew it was there.
His body, which rebelled at the stillness imposed upon it, caused him constant, excruciating pain. What began as mild discomfort grew like a fever, until his body was consumed with an array of cramps and cricks and throbs and kinks and aches and chafes. Fiery needles tortured his shoulders and spine and knees and hips. Even his head seemed to catch fire, and for a time he was certain that the pain would carry him away.
Then all at once it, too, disappeared, and, as his third night on the bluff began, the stars seemed close enough to be plucked and the moon that rose could have been picked out of the night sky as easily as taking an apple off a branch. He imagined rolling it back and forth on the ground from one hand to another. All was bliss and so great was his contentment that instead of fighting against sleep he could do no more than sweetly wish it away, thinking dreamily that he might somehow remain as he was for all time.
Whether or not he slept that night Smiles A Lot did not know. It seemed as if he had, for there were stretches of time he could not account for. But when he heard the call of a bird and saw that the sun was up, he realized that the peace he had reached the day before was still with him. He had no thirst and no hunger. There was no complaint from a body that, aside from subtle, nearly imperceptible shifts, had stayed in the same position for hours, maybe days.
But something was different. He opened his eyes a little and discovered that the skin of the earth had come alive. It was moving.
He turned then, swiveling his head and twisting his spine, first one way, then another. The skin of the entire hill was moving and in an instant he became cognizant of what was causing the phenomenon. Crows, multitudes of them, were milling back and forth over the ground. Every oak on the slope behind him was heavy with the big black birds. Their voices came to him, a raucous din of screeches and mutterings.