He heard the muffled sound of laughter. It seemed to be coming from Wind In His Hair. Again there was a laugh out loud and the stern warrior turned on his pony, speaking over his shoulder.
“That was funny,” he sputtered, “when the white man became a buffalo.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned back to the trail. But Kicking Bird could see Wind In His Hair’s shoulders bouncing to the beat of stifled giggles.
It was funny. Loo Ten Nant walking around on his knees, his hands growing out of his head for horns. And that blanket, that blanket stuffed under his shirt for a hump.
No, Kicking Bird smiled to himself, nothing is stranger than a white man.
seven Lieutenant Dunbar spread the heavy robe out on his bunk and marveled at it.
I have never seen a buffalo, he thought pridefully, and already I have a buffalo robe.
Then he sat down rather reverently on the edge of the bed, fell onto his back, and swept his hands across the soft, thick hide. He lifted one of the edges hanging over the bunk and inspected the curing. He pressed his face against the fur and savored the wild smell.
How quickly things can change. A few hours before, he’d been rocked off his foundations, and now he was floating.
He frowned slightly. Some of his deportment, that buffalo thing, for instance, might have gone overboard. And he seemed to have done most of the talking, perhaps too much. But these were tiny doubts. As he ruminated on the great robe, he couldn’t help but be encouraged by his first real encounter.
He liked both Indians. The one with the smooth, dignified manner he liked most. There was something strong about him, something in his peaceful, patient manner that was appealing. He was quiet but manly. The other one, the hot-tempered one who had taken the girl from his arms, was certainly nobody to fool with. But he was fascinating.
And the robe. They had given it to him. The robe was really something.
The lieutenant played back other remembrances as he relaxed on his beautiful souvenir. With all these fresh thoughts flying through his head there was no room and no inclination to delve into the true source of his euphoria.
He had made good use of his time alone, time he had shared only with a horse and a wolf. He had done a good job with the fort. All of that was a mark in his favor. But the waiting and the worrying had clung to him like grease in a wrinkle, and the weight of this load had been considerable.
Now it was gone, lifted by two primitive men whose language he did not speak, whose likes he had not seen, whose entire state of being was alien.
Unwittingly they had done a great service by coming. The root of Dunbar’s euphoria could be found in deliverance. Deliverance from himself.
He was no longer alone.
one May 17, 1863
I’ve written nothing in this record for many days. So much has happened that I hardly know where to begin.
The Indians have come to visit on three occasions thus far and I have no doubt there will be more. Always the same two with their escort of six or seven other warriors. (I am amazed that all these people are warriors. Have not seen a man yet who is not a fighter.)
Our meetings have been highly amicable, though greatly hampered by the language barrier. Whatever I have learned to date is so little compared to what I could know. I still don’t know what type of Indians they are but suspect them to be Comanche. I believe I have heard a word that sounds like Comanche more than once.
I know the names of my visitors but could not begin to spell them. I find them agreeable and interesting men. They are different as night and day. One is exceedingly fiery and is no doubt a leading warrior. His physique (which is something to behold) and his sullen, suspicious disposition must make him a formidable fighter. I sincerely hope I never have to fight him, for I should be hard-pressed if it came to that. This fellow, whose eyes are rather close-set but must be called handsome nonetheless, greatly covets my horse and never fails to engage me in conversation about Cisco.
We converse in made-up signs, a sort of pantomime which both Indians are starting to get the hang of. But it is very slow going, and most of our common ground has been established on the basis of failure rather than success in communication.
The fierce one dumps extraordinary amounts of sugar into his coffee. It won’t be long before that ration is exhausted. Luckily, I do not take sugar. Ha! The fierce one (as I call him) is likable despite his taciturn manner, rather like a king of street toughs who, by virtue of his physical prowess, commands respect. Having spent some time on the streets myself, I respect him in this way.
Beyond that, there is a crude honesty and intent which I like.
He is a direct fellow.
I call the other man the quiet one and like him immensely. Unlike the fierce one, he is patient and inquisitive.
I think he is as frustrated as I with the language difficulties. He has taught me a few words of their speech, and I have done the same for him. I know the Comanche words for head, hand, horse, fire, coffee, house, and several others, as well as hello and goodbye. I don’t know enough yet to make a sentence. It takes a long time to get the sounds right. I have no doubt it is hard for him as well.
The quiet one calls me Loo Ten Nant and for some reason does not use Dunbar. I am sure he doesn’t forget to use it (I have reminded him several times), so there must be another reason. It certainly has a distinctive ring . . . Loo Ten Nant.
He strikes me as being possessed of a first-rate intelligence. He listens with care and seems to notice everything. Every shift in the wind, every random call of a bird, is as likely to catch his attention as something much more dramatic. Without language I am reduced to reading his reactions with my senses, but by all appearances he is favorably inclined toward me.
There was an incident concerning Two Socks which aptly illustrates this point. It occurred at the end of their most recent visit. We’d drunk a substantial amount of coffee and I had just introduced my guests to the wonders of slab bacon. The quiet one suddenly noticed Two Socks on the bluff across the river. He said a few words to the fierce one and they both watched the wolf. Being anxious to show them what I knew of Two Socks, I took knife and bacon in hand and went to the edge of the bluff on our side of the river.
The fierce one was occupied with sugaring his coffee and tasting the bacon, and watched from where he sat. But the quiet one got up and followed me. I usually leave Two Socks scraps on my side of the river, but after I had cut away his ration, something got into me and I hurled it across the river. It was a good toss, landing only a few feet from Two Socks. He just sat there, however, and for a time I thought he would do nothing. But bless the old man’s heart if he didn’t walk over and sniff around the bacon and then pick it up. I’d never seen him take the meat before, and felt a certain pride in him as he trotted off with the goods.
To me it was a happy event and nothing more. But the quiet one seemed unduly affected by this display. When I turned back to him, his face seemed more peaceful than ever. He nodded at me several times, then walked up and put his hand on my shoulder as though he approved.
Back at the fire he performed a series of signs which I was finally able to discern as an invitation
