The lieutenant could not believe the blood. It soaked into the killing ground like juice spilled on a tablecloth. It covered the arms and faces and clothing of the butcherers. It dripped from the ponies and travois transporting the flesh back to camp.
They took everything: hides, meat, guts, hooves, tails, heads. In the space of a few hours it was all gone, leaving the prairie with the appearance of a gigantic, recently cleared banquet table.
Lieutenant Dunbar passed the butchering time lolling around with the other warriors. Spirits were high. Only two men had been hurt, neither of them seriously. One veteran pony had snapped a foreleg, but that was little to lose when compared with the abundance the hunters had produced.
They were delighted, and it showed in their faces as they hobnobbed through the afternoon, smoking and eating and swapping stories. Dunbar didn’t understand the words, but the stories were easy enough to pick up. They were tales of close calls and broken bows and the ones who had gotten away.
When the lieutenant was called upon to relate his story, he mimed the adventure with a theatricality that drove the warriors crazy with laughter. It became the day’s most sought-after testimonial, and he was forced to repeat it a half-dozen times. The result was the same with every telling. By the time he was halfway through, his listeners would be hugging themselves, trying to hold back the ache of unbridled laughter.
Lieutenant Dunbar didn’t mind. He was laughing, too. And he didn’t mind the role that luck had played in his deeds, for he knew that they were real. And he knew that through them he had accomplished something marvelous.
He had become “one of the boys.”
The first thing he saw when they returned to camp that evening was his hat. It was riding on the head of a middle-aged man whom he did not know.
There was a brief moment of tension as Lieutenant Dunbar strode directly over, pointed at the army-issue hat, which fitted the man rather badly, and said, in a matter-of-fact way, “That’s mine.”
The warrior looked at him curiously and removed the hat. He turned it around in his hands and placed it back on his head. Then he slipped the knife off his belt, handed it to the lieutenant, and went on his way without saying a word.
Dunbar watched his hat bob out of sight and stared down at the knife in his hand. Its beaded sheath looked like a treasure, and he walked off to find Kicking Bird, thinking he’d gotten much the best part of the exchange.
He moved freely through the camp, and everywhere he went he found himself the object of cheerful salutations.
Men nodded acknowledgments, women smiled, and giggling children tottered after him. The band was delirious with the prospect of the great feast to come, and the lieutenant’s presence was an added source of joy. Without a formal proclamation or consensus they had come to think of him as a living good-luck charm.
Kicking Bird took him directly to Ten Bears’s lodge, where a little ceremony of thanks was being held. The old man was still remarkably fit, and the hump from his kill was being roasted first. When it was ready Ten Bears himself cut away a piece, said a few words to the Great Spirit, and honored the lieutenant by handing him the first piece.
Dunbar made his short bow, took a bite, and gallantly handed the slab back to Ten Bears, a move that impressed the old man greatly. He fired up his pipe and further honored the lieutenant by offering him the first puff.
The smoking in front of Ten Bears’s lodge marked the beginning of a wild night. Everyone had a fire going, and over every fire fresh meat was roasting; humps, ribs, and a wide array of other choice cuts.
Lit like a small city, the temporary village twinkled long into the night, its smoke trailing into the darkened sky with an aroma that could be smelled for miles.
The people ate like there was no tomorrow. When they were stuffed full they took short breaks, drifting off into little groups to make idle talk or to play at games of chance. But once the last meal had settled, they would return to the fires and gorge themselves again.
Before the night was very far along Lieutenant Dunbar felt like he had eaten an entire buffalo. He’d been touring the camp with Wind In His Hair, and at each fire the pair was treated like royalty.
They were en route to still another group of merrymakers when the lieutenant stopped in the shadows behind a lodge and told Wind In His Hair with signs that his stomach was hurting and that he wanted to sleep.
But at this moment Wind In His Hair wasn’t listening too closely. His attention was riveted on the lieutenant’s tunic. Dunbar looked down his chest at the row of brass buttons, then back into the face of his hunting pal. The warrior’s eyes were slightly glazed as he stuck out a finger and let it come to rest on one of the buttons.
“You want this?” the lieutenant asked, the sound of his words wiping the glaze from Wind In His Hair’s eyes.
The warrior said nothing. He inspected his fingertip to see if anything had come off the button.
“If you want it,” the lieutenant said, “you can have it.”
He loosed the buttons, slipped his arms free of the sleeves, and handed it to the warrior.
Wind In His Hair knew it was being offered, but he didn’t take it right away. Instead he began to undo the magnificent breastplate of shiny pipe-bone that was tied at his neck and waist. This he handed to Dunbar as his other brown hand closed around the tunic.
The lieutenant helped with the buttons, and when it was on he could see that Wind In His Hair was as delighted as a kid at Christmas. Dunbar handed back the beautiful breastplate and was met with rejection. Wind In His Hair shook his head violently and waved his hands. He made motions that told the white soldier to put it on.
“I can’t take this,” the lieutenant stammered. “This is not . . . it’s not a fair trade. . . . You understand?”
But Wind In His Hair wouldn’t hear of it. To him it was more than fair. Breastplates were full of power and took time to make. But the tunic was one of a kind.
He turned Dunbar around, draped the decorative armor over his chest, and fastened the ties securely.
So the trade was made and each man was happy. Wind In His Hair grunted a goodbye and started for the nearest fire. The new acquisition was tight and it itched against his skin. But that was of little import. He was certain that the tunic would prove to be a solid addition to his supply of charms. In time it might show itself to possess strong medicine, particularly the brass buttons and the golden bars on the shoulders.
It was a great prize.
Eager to avoid the food he knew would be foisted on him were he to cut through camp, Lieutenant Dunbar stole onto the prairie and circled the temporary village, hoping he could spot Kicking Bird’s lodge and go straightaway to sleep.
On his second full revolution he caught sight of the lodge marked with a bear, and knowing that Kicking Bird’s tipi would be pitched nearby, he reentered the camp.
He’d not gone far when a sound gave him pause, and he stopped behind a nondescript lodge. Light from a fire was splashing across the ground just in front of him, and it was from this fire that the sound was coming. It was singing, high and repetitious and distinctly feminine.
Hugging the wall of the lodge, Lieutenant Dunbar peered ahead in the manner of a Peeping Tom.
A dozen young women, their chores behind them for the moment, were dancing and singing in a ragged circle close to the fire. As far as he could tell, there was nothing ceremonial involved. The singing was punctuated by light laughter, and he figured that this dance was impromptu, something designed purely for fun.
His eyes accidentally fell on the breastplate. It was lit now with the orangish glow of the fire, and he couldn’t resist running a hand over the double row of tubelike bones that now covered the whole of his chest and stomach. What a rare thing it was to see such beauty and such strength residing in the same place at the same time. It made him feel special.
I will keep this forever, he thought dreamily.
When he looked up again several of the dancers had broken away to form a little knot of smiling, whispering
