from his touch.
Dunbar jumped wildly as something grabbed at his ankle and then let go. He spun back, ready to face the unseen attacker.
Two Socks was right there, panting like a fighter between rounds.
Lieutenant Dunbar stared at him for a few seconds.
Two Socks glanced casually in the direction of home, as if thinking the game might be coming to a close.
“All right then,” the lieutenant said gently, surrendering with his hands. “You can come, or you can stay. I don’t have any more time for this.”
It might have been a tiny noise or it might have been something on the wind. Whatever it was, Two Socks caught it. He whirled suddenly and stared up the trail with his hackles raised.
Dunbar followed suit and immediately saw Kicking Bird with two other men. They were close by, watching from the shoulder of a slope.
Dunbar waved eagerly and hollered, “Hello,” as Two Socks began to slink away.
Kicking Bird and his friends had been watching for some time, long enough to have seen the entire show. They had been greatly entertained. Kicking Bird also knew that he had witnessed something precious, something that had provided a solution to one of the puzzles surrounding the white man . . . the puzzle of what to call him.
A man should have a real name, he thought as he rode down to meet Lieutenant Dunbar, particularly when it is a white who acts like this one.
He remembered the old names, like The Man Who Shines Like Snow, and some of the new ones being bandied about, like Finds The Buffalo. None of them really fit. Certainly not Jun.
He felt certain that this was the right one. It suited the white soldier’s personality. People would remember him by this. And Kicking Bird himself, with two witnesses to back him up, had been present at the time the Great Spirit revealed it.
He said it to himself several times as he came down the slope. The sound of it was as good as the name itself.
Dances With Wolves.
CHAPTER XXI
In a quiet way it was one of the most satisfying days of Lieutenant Dunbar’s life.
Kicking Bird’s family greeted him with a warmth and respect that made him feel like more than a guest. They were genuinely happy to see him.
He and Kicking Bird settled down for a smoke that, because of constant but pleasant interruptions, lasted well into the afternoon.
Word of Lieutenant Dunbar’s name and how he got it spread through camp with the usual astonishing speed, and any nagging suspicions the people might have harbored toward the white soldier evaporated with this inspiring news.
He was not a god, but neither was he like any hair mouth they had encountered. He was a man of medicine. Warriors dropped by constantly, some of them wanting to say hello, others wanting nothing more than to lay eyes on Dances With Wolves.
The lieutenant recognized most of them now. At each arrival he would stand and make his short bow. Some of them bowed back. A few extended their hands, as they had seen him do.
There wasn’t much they could talk about, but the lieutenant was getting good with signs, good enough to rehash some of the recent hunt’s high points. This formed the basis for most of the visiting.
After a couple of hours the steady stream of visitors trickled away to no one, and Dunbar was just wondering why he hadn’t seen Stands With A Fist, and if she was on the agenda, when Wind In His Hair suddenly walked in.
Before greetings could be exchanged, each man’s attention was drawn to the items they had traded: the unbuttoned tunic and the gleaming breastplate. For both of them it was a subtly reassuring sight.
As they shook hands Lieutenant Dunbar thought, I like this fellow; it’s good to see him.
The same sentiments were foremost in Wind In His Hair’s thoughts, and they sat down together for an amicable chat, though neither man could understand what the other was saying.
Kicking Bird called to his wife for food, and the trio soon devoured a lunch of pemmican and berries. They ate without saying a word.
After the meal another pipe was packed and the two Indians fell into a conversation that the lieutenant could not divine. By their gestures and speech, however, he guessed they were dealing with something beyond idle chitchat.
They seemed to be planning some activity, and he was not surprised when, at the end of their talk, both men stood up and asked him to follow as they went outside.
Dunbar trailed them to the rear of Kicking Bird’s tipi, where a cache of material was waiting for them. A neat stack of limber willow poles was sitting next to a high pile of dried brush.
The two men had another, even briefer discussion, then set to work. When the lieutenant saw what was taking shape, he lent a hand here and there, but before he could contribute much, the material had been transformed into a shady arbor four or five feet high.
A small portion had been left uncovered to afford an entrance, and Lieutenant Dunbar was shown inside first. There wasn’t enough room to stand up, but once he was down, he found the place roomy and peaceful. The brush made good cover against the sun and was sheer enough to allow for a free flow of air.
It wasn’t until he’d finished this quick inspection that he realized Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair had vanished. A week ago he would have been uncomfortable with their sudden desertion. But, like the Indians, he was no longer suspicious. The lieutenant was content to sit quietly against the surprisingly strong back wall, listening to the now familiar sounds of Ten Bears’s camp as he awaited developments.
They were not long in coming.
Only a few minutes had passed before he heard footsteps approaching. Kicking Bird duck-walked through the entrance and seated himself far enough away to leave a full space between them.
A shadow falling across the entrance told Dunbar that someone else was waiting to come inside. Without thinking, he assumed it was Wind In His Hair.
Kicking Bird called out softly. The shadow shifted to the accompaniment of tinkling bells, and Stands With A Fist stooped through the doorway.
Dunbar scooted to one side, making room as she maneuvered between them, and in the few seconds it took her to settle, he saw much that was new.
The bells were sewn on the sides of finely beaded moccasins. Her doeskin dress looked like an heirloom, something well cared for and not for every day. The bodice was sprinkled with small, thick bones arranged in rows. They were elk’s teeth.
The wrist closest to him wore a bracelet of solid brass. Around her neck was a choker of the same pipe-bone he wore on his chest. Her hair, fresh and fragrant, hung down her back in a single braid, exposing more of the high-cheeked, distinctly browed face than he had seen before. She looked more delicate and feminine to him now. And more white.
It dawned on the lieutenant then that the arbor had been built as a place for them to meet. And in the time it took her to sit, he realized how much he had anticipated seeing her again.
