full of vigor. Lieutenant Dunbar tipped forward in the suggestion of a bow and tapped his hand against the side of his head in a slow and deliberate salute.
A moment later Kicking Bird returned this overture with a strange movement of his own hand, turning it over, from back to palm.
The lieutenant didn’t know what it meant, but he interpreted it correctly as a friendly gesture. He glanced around, as if to make sure the place was still there, and said, “Welcome to Fort Sedgewick.”
What the words meant was a complete mystery to Kicking Bird, but as Lieutenant Dunbar had done, he took them for some kind of greeting.
“We have come from Ten Bears’s camp to make a peaceful talk,” he said, drawing a blank look of ignorance from the lieutenant.
Since it was now established that neither one would be able to converse, a silence fell over the two parties. Wind In His Hair took advantage of the lull to study the details of the white man’s buildings. He looked sharp and long at the awning, which was now beginning to roll in the breeze.
Kicking Bird sat impassively on his pony as the seconds dragged. Dunbar tapped his toe against the ground and stroked his chin. As time ticked away he grew nervous, and his nervousness reminded him of the morning coffee he’d missed and how much he wanted a cup. He wanted a cigarette, too.
“Coffee?” he asked Kicking Bird.
The medicine man tilted his head curiously.
“Coffee?” the lieutenant repeated. He curled his hand around an imaginary cup and made a drinking motion. “Coffee?” he said again. “To drink?”
Kicking Bird merely stared at the lieutenant. Wind In His Hair asked a question and Kicking Bird answered. Then they both looked through their host. After what seemed an eternity to Dunbar, Kicking Bird finally nodded his assent.
“Good, good,” said the lieutenant, patting the side of his leg. “Come along then.” He motioned them off their horses and waved them forward as he walked under the awning.
The Comanches trailed along cautiously. Everything their eyes fell on had an air of mystery and the lieutenant cut something of a ludicrous figure, fidgeting like a man whose guests had caught him off guard by arriving an hour early.
There was no fire going in the pit, but luckily he’d laid in enough dry wood for coffee. He squatted next to the pile of kindling and started making up the fire.
“Sit down,” he asked. “Please.”
But the Indians didn’t understand and he had to repeat himself, pantomiming the act of sitting as he spoke.
When they were down he rushed over to the supply hut and returned as quickly carrying a five-pound sack of beans and a grinder. Once he had the fire going, Lieutenant Dunbar poured beans into the rim of the grinder’s funnel and started cranking the handle.
As the beans began to disappear down the grinder’s metal cone, he could see that Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair were leaning forward curiously. He hadn’t realized that something so ordinary as grinding coffee could be magic. But it was magic to Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair. Neither one had ever seen a coffee grinder.
Lieutenant Dunbar was thrilled to be with people after all this time and was anxious for his guests to stay awhile, so he milked the grinding operation for all it was worth. Stopping abruptly, he moved the machine a couple of feet closer to the Indians, providing them with a clearer view of the process. He cranked slowly, letting them watch the beans descend. When there were only a few left he finished with a flourish, cranking with a wild, theatrical flair. Then he paused with the dramatic effect of a magician, allowing his audience to react.
Kicking Bird was intrigued with the machine itself. He ran his fingertips lightly against one of the grinder’s slick wooden sides. True to his nature, Wind In His Hair found the crushing mechanism most to his liking. He stuck one of his long, dark fingers into the funnel and felt around the little hole at the bottom, hoping to find out what had happened to the beans.
It was time for the finale, and Dunbar interrupted these inspections by holding up a hand. Turning the machine around, he squeezed the little knob at its base between his fingers. The Indians bent their heads, more curious than ever.
At the last possible moment and in the way someone might reveal a fabulous jewel, Lieutenant Dunbar’s eyes widened, a smile sprang up on his face, and out came the drawer, filled with fresh black grounds.
Both Comanches were mightily impressed. Each took little dabs of pulverized beans and sniffed. Then they sat quietly as their host hung his pot over the fire and let the water come to a boil, awaiting the next development.
Dunbar served up the coffee, handing each of his guests a steaming black cup. The men let the aroma climb into their faces and exchanged knowing looks. This smelled like good coffee, much better than what they raided from the Mexicans for so many years. Much stronger.
Dunbar watched expectantly as they began to sip and was surprised when they screwed up their faces. Something was wrong. They both spoke a few words at once, a question, it seemed.
The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
The Indians held a brief but inconclusive conference. Then Kicking Bird had an idea. He made a fist, held it over the cup, and opened his hand, as if he were letting something drop into the coffee. He pretended to stir what he had dropped with a twig.
Lieutenant Dunbar said something he didn’t understand and then Kicking Bird watched as the white man jumped up, walked to the badly made house of earth, returned with another sack, and handed it around the fire.
Kicking Bird looked inside, grunting when he saw the brown crystals.
Lieutenant Dunbar saw a smile flicker on the Indian’s face and knew he had guessed right. Sugar was what they had wanted.
Kicking Bird was especially encouraged by the white soldier’s enthusiasm. He wanted to make talk, and when they introduced themselves, Loo Ten Nant asked for the names several times, until he could speak them in the right way. He looked odd and he did some odd things, but the white man was eager to listen and seemed to have large stores of energy. Perhaps because he himself was so inclined toward peace, Kicking Bird greatly appreciated the force of energy in others.
He talked more than Kicking Bird was used to. When he thought about it, it seemed the white man never stopped talking the whole time.
But he was entertaining. He did strange dances and made strange signals with his hands and face. He even did some impressions that made Wind In His Hair laugh. And that was hard to do.
Aside from his general impressions, Kicking Bird had found out some things. Loo Ten Nant could not be a god. He was far too human. And he was alone. No one else was living there. But he did not learn why he was alone. Nor did he learn if more white men were coming and what their plans might be. Kicking Bird was anxious for the answers to these questions.
Wind In His Hair was just ahead. They were riding single file along a trail winding through a stand of cottonwoods close by the river. There was only the mushy plop of the ponies’ hooves in the wet sand, and he wondered what Wind In His Hair thought. They had not yet compared notes on the meeting. It worried him a little.
Kicking Bird needn’t have worried, for Wind In His Hair was also favorably impressed. This despite the fact that killing the white soldier crossed his mind several times. He had long thought white men were no more than useless irritations, coyotes getting around the meat. But more than once this white soldier had showed some bravery. He was friendly, too. And he was funny. Very funny.
Kicking Bird looked down at the two bags, the coffee and sugar flopping against his horse’s shoulders, and the idea came into his mind that he actually liked the white soldier. It was a strange idea and he had to think about it.
Well, what if I do? the medicine man thought at last.
