Gradually Stands With A Fist began to look forward to the hours she spent in the brush arbor.
Now that he had been accepted by the band, Dances With Wolves ceased to be the great problem he had once been. His connection with white society had paled, and while what he represented was still a fearful thing, the soldier himself was not. He didn’t even look like a soldier anymore.
At first the notoriety surrounding activities in the arbor bothered Stands With A Fist. The schooling of Dances With Wolves, his presence in camp, and her key role as go-between were constant topics of conversation around the village. The celebrity of it made her feel uneasy, as though she was being watched. She was especially sensitive to the possibility of criticism for shirking the routine duties expected of every Comanche woman. It was true that Kicking Bird himself had excused her, but she still worried.
After two weeks, however, none of these fears had materialized, and the new respect she enjoyed was having a beneficial effect on her personality. Her smile was quicker and her shoulders were squarer. The importance of her new role charged her step with a sense of authority that everyone could see. Her life was becoming bigger, and inside herself she knew it was a good thing.
Other people knew it, too.
She was gathering wood one evening when a woman friend stooping next to her suddenly said with a touch of pride: “People are talking about you.”
Stands With A Fist straightened, unsure of how to take the remark.
“What are they saying?” she asked flatly.
“They say that you are making medicine. They say that maybe you should change your name.”
“To what?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the friend replied. “Medicine Tongue maybe, something like that. It’s just some talk.”
As they walked together in the twilight Stands With A Fist rolled this around in her head. They were at the edge of camp before she spoke again.
“I like my name,” she said, knowing that word of her wishes would quickly filter through camp. “I will keep it.”
A few nights later she was returning to Kicking Bird’s tipi after relieving herself when she heard someone start to sing in a lodge close by. She paused to listen and was astounded at what she heard.
“The Comanches have a bridge
That passes to another world
The bridge is called Stands With A Fist.”
Too embarrassed to hear more, she hurried along to bed. But as she tucked the covers under her chin, she was not thinking bad thoughts about the song. She was thinking only of the words she had heard, and on reflection, they seemed quite good.
She slept deeply that night. It was already light when she woke the next morning. Scrambling to catch up with the day, she hurried out of the lodge and stopped short.
Dances With Wolves was riding out of camp on the little buckskin horse. It was a sight that made her heart sink a little further than she might have imagined. The thought of him going did not disturb her so much, but the thought of him not coming back deflated her to the extent that it showed on her face.
Stands With A Fist blushed to think that someone might see her like this. She glanced around quickly and turned a brighter shade of red.
Kicking Bird was watching her.
Her heart beat wildly as she struggled to compose herself. The medicine man was coming over.
“There will be no talk today,” he said, studying her with a care that made her insides squirm.
“I see,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral.
But she could see curiosity in his eyes, curiosity that called for an explanation.
“I like to make the talk,” she went on. “I am happy to make the white words.”
“He wants to see the white man’s fort. He will come back at sundown.”
The medicine man gave her another close look and said. “We will make more talk tomorrow.”
Her day passed minute by minute.
She watched the sun like a bored office worker watches each tick of the clock. Nothing moves slower than watched time. She had great difficulty concentrating on her duties because of this.
When she wasn’t watching time she was daydreaming.
Now that he had emerged as a real person, there were things in him she found to admire. Some of them might be traced to their mutual whiteness. Some of them were his alone. All of them held her interest.
She felt a mysterious pride when she thought of the deeds he had performed, deeds that were known by all her people.
Remembering his playacting made her laugh. Sometimes he was very funny. Funny but not foolish. In every way he seemed sincere and open and respectful and full of good humor. She was convinced that these qualities were genuine.
The sight of him with the breastplate on had seemed out of place at first, like a Comanche would be out of place in a top hat. But he wore it day after day without paying the least attention to it. And he never took it off. It was obvious that he loved it.
His hair was tangled like hers, not thick and straight like the others. And he hadn’t tried to change it.
He hadn’t changed the boots and pants either but wore them in the same natural way he took to the breastplate.
These musings led her to the conclusion that Dances With Wolves was an honest person. Every human being finds certain characteristics above all others to cherish, and for Stands With A Fist it was honesty.
This thinking about Dances With Wolves did not subside, and as the afternoon wore on, bolder thoughts came to her. She pictured him coming back at sundown. She pictured them together in the arbor the following day.
One more image came to her as she knelt by the edge of the river in the late afternoon, filling a jug with water. They were together in the arbor. He was talking about himself and she was listening. But it was only the two of them.
Kicking Bird was gone.
Her daydream became real on the very next day.
The three of them had just gotten down to talking when word was brought that a faction of young warriors had declared their intention to make a war party against the Pawnee. Because there had been no previous talk about this and because the young men in question were inexperienced, Ten Bears had hastily organized a council.
Kicking Bird was called away and suddenly they were alone.
The silence in the arbor was so heavy that it made both of them nervous. Each wanted to talk, but considerations of what to say and how to say it held them up. They were speechless.
Stands With A Fist finally decided on her opening words, but she was too late.
He was already turning to her, saying the words in a shy but forceful way.
“I want to know about you,” he said.
She turned away, trying to think. The English was still hard for her. Fractured by the effort of thought, it came out in clear but half-stuttered words.
“Whaa . . . what you know . . . want to know?” she asked.
