to visit his home on the next day. I readily accepted, and they departed soon after.
It would be impossible to give a full account of all my impressions of the Comanche camp. I should be writing forever were that the case. But I shall try to give a brief sketch in hopes that my observations may prove of some use in future dealings with these people.
I was met a mile out by a small delegation with the quiet one at its head. We proceeded on to the village without delay. The people had turned out in their best wardrobes to meet us. The color and beauty of these costumes is something to see. They were strangely subdued, and so, I must admit, was I. A few of the smaller children broke ranks and ran up to tap me about the legs with their hands. Everyone else held back.
We dismounted in front of one of the conical houses and there was a brief moment of doubt when a boy of about twelve ran up and tried to lead Cisco away. We had a short tug-of-war with the bridle, but the quiet one interceded. Again he placed a hand on my shoulder and the look in his eyes told me I had nothing to fear. I let the boy take Cisco away. He seemed delighted.
Then the quiet one showed me into his abode. The place was dark but not uncheerful. It smelled of smoke and meat. (The entire village has a distinct odor which I find not distasteful. As close as I can describe it, it is the smell of a wild life.) There were two women and several children inside. The quiet one bade me to sit down, and the women brought food in bowls. Everyone disappeared then, leaving us alone.
We ate in silence for a time. I thought of making inquiries about the girl I found on the prairie. I had not seen her and whether she still lived, I did not know. (I still do not know.) But it seemed far too complicated a subject considering our limitations, so we talked as best we could about the food (a kind of sweet meat I found delicious).
When we had finished I made a cigarette and smoked it while the quiet one sat across from me. His attention was constantly diverted to the entrance. I felt sure we were waiting for someone or something. My assumption was correct, for it was not long before the flap of hide opened and two Indians appeared. They spoke something to the quiet one and he immediately rose, making a sign for me to follow.
A considerable crowd of onlookers was waiting outside, and I was jostled in the crush of humanity as we made our way past several other homes before stopping at one which was decorated with a large, solid-colored bear. Here I was pushed gently inside by the quiet one. There were five older men sitting in a rough circle around the customary fire pit, but my gaze fell immediately on the oldest among them. He was a powerfully built man whom I guessed to be past sixty though still remarkably fit. His leather shirt was adorned with beadwork of intricate beauty, the designs being precise and colorful. Attached to a lock of his graying hair was a huge claw, which I judged, owing to the design outside, had once belonged to a bear. Hair was hanging at intervals along his shirtsleeves, and I realized a moment later that these must be scalps. One of them was light brown. That was unsettling.
But the most salient feature of all was his face. Never have I seen such a face. His eyes were of a brightness that might only be compared to fever. His cheekbones were extremely high and round, and his nose was curved like a beak. His chin was very square. Lines ran in such heavy profusion along the skin of his face that to call them wrinkles hardly seems adequate. They were on the order of crevices. One side of his forehead carried a distinct dent, probably the result of some long-ago battle injury. He was altogether a stunning image of aged wisdom and strength. But for all this I never felt threatened during my short stay.
It seemed clear that I was the reason for this conference. I was certain that I had been produced for the sole purpose of allowing the old man a close look at me.
A pipe appeared and the men began to smoke. It was long-stemmed, and from what I could tell, the tobacco was a harsh, native blend, for I alone was excluded from the smoking. I was eager to make a good impression, and being in want of a cigarette of my own, I took out the fixings and offered them to the old man. The quiet one said something to him, and the chieftain reached across with one of his gnarled hands and took the pouch and papers. He made a careful inspection of my things. Then he looked at me sharply with his heavy-lidded, rather cruel-looking eyes and handed the fixings back. Not knowing if my offer had been accepted, I rolled a smoke anyway. The old man seemed interested as I went about it.
I held the cigarette out and he took it. The quiet one said something again and the old man handed it back. With signs, the quiet one asked me to smoke and I complied with his request.
As they all watched, I lit up, inhaled, and blew out the smoke. Before I could have another puff the old man was reaching out. I gave it to him. He looked at it with some caution at first, then inhaled as I had done. And as I had done, he exhaled in a stream. Then he drew the cigarette close to his face.
To my chagrin, he began to roll his fingers to and fro in a rapid way. The ember fell off and the tobacco spilled out. He rolled the empty paper into a ball and carelessly tossed it into the fire.
Slowly he began to smile, and in short order all the men around the fire were laughing,
Perhaps I had been insulted, but their good humor was such that I was swept up in the contagion of it.
Afterwards I was shown to my horse and escorted a mile or so from the village, where the quiet one bid me a curt goodbye.
That is the essential record of my first visit to the Indian camp. I do not know what they are thinking now.
It was good to see Fort Sedgewick again. It is my home. And yet, I look forward to another visit with my “neighbors.”
When I look at the eastern horizon I rarely fail to wonder if a column might be out there. I can only hope that my vigilance here and my “negotiations” with the wild people of the plains will, in the meantime, bear fruit.
Lt. John J. Dunbar U.S.A.
one A few hours after Lieutenant Dunbar’s first visit to the village, Kicking Bird and Ten Bears held a high level talk. It was short and to the point.
Ten Bears liked Lieutenant Dunbar. He liked the look in his eyes, and Ten Bears put great stock in what he saw in a person’s eyes. He also liked the lieutenant’s manners. He was humble and courteous, and Ten Bears placed considerable value on these traits. The matter of the cigarette was amusing. How someone could make smoke out of something with so little substance defied logic, but he didn’t hold it against Lieutenant Dunbar and agreed with Kicking Bird that, as an intelligence-gathering source, the white man was worth knowing.
The old chief tacitly approved Kicking Bird’s idea for breaking the language barrier. But there were conditions. Kicking Bird would have to orchestrate his moves unofficially. Loo Ten Nant would be his responsibility, and only his. Already there was talk that the white man might be responsible in some way for the scarcity of game. No one knew how people would take to the white soldier if he made repeated visits to the village. The people might turn against him. It was entirely possible that someone would kill him.
Kicking Bird accepted the conditions, assuring Ten Bears that he would do everything in his power to conduct the plan in a quiet way.
This settled, they took up a more important subject.
The buffalo were way overdue.
Scouts had been ranging far and wide for days, but so far they had seen only one buffalo. That was an aging, solitary bull being torn apart by a large pack of wolves. His carcass had hardly been worth picking over.
The band’s morale was sinking along with its meager food reserves, and it would not be many days before the shortage would become critical. They’d been living on the meat of local deer, but this source was playing out
