responsibilities were delegated to each member of the party with remarkable care and tact. Reading between the lines, he could see that, among Kicking Bird’s many outstanding qualities, none counted more than his ability to make each man feel he was a crucially important member of the coming expedition.
Dances With Wolves also got to spend time with Wind In His Hair. Because Wind In His Hair had fought the Pawnee on many occasions, his stories of these encounters were in demand. In fact, they were vital to the preparation of the party’s younger men. Informal classes in warfare were conducted in and around Wind In His Hair’s lodge, and as the days sped by, Dances With Wolves became infected.
The infection was low-grade at first, nothing more than idle reflections on what the warpath would be like. But eventually he was caught up with a strong desire to take the trail against the Comanches’ enemies.
He waited patiently for opportune times when he could ask about going along. He had his chances, but the moments came and went without him finding his tongue. He was made shy by the fear of someone saying no.
Two days before the party’s scheduled departure, a large herd of antelope was sighted near camp, and a group of warriors, including Dances With Wolves, rode out in search of meat.
Using the same surrounding technique they had employed with the buffalo, the men were able to kill a great number of the animals, about sixty head.
Fresh meat was always welcome, but more importantly, the appearance and successful hunting of the antelope was taken as a sign that the little war against the Pawnee would have a good result. The men going out would be made securer with the knowledge that their families wouldn’t be hard-pressed for food, even if they were gone several weeks.
A dance of thanks was held the same evening, and everyone was in high spirits. Everyone but Dances With Wolves. As the night wore on he watched from a distance, growing more and more morose. He was thinking only of being left behind, and now he could not stand the thought.
He maneuvered himself close to Stands With A Fist, and when the dance broke up, he was at her side.
“I want to talk to Kicking Bird,” he said.
Something was wrong, she thought. She read his eyes for clues but could find none.
“When?”
“Now.”
For some reason he couldn’t calm himself down. He was uncharacteristically nervous and fidgety, and as they walked to the lodge, both Stands With A Fist and Kicking Bird could see this.
His anxiety was still evident when they had seated themselves in Kicking Bird’s tipi. The medicine man skated over the usual formalities and came quickly to the point.
“Make your talk,” he said, speaking through Stands With A Fist.
“I want to go.”
“Go where?” she asked.
Dances With Wolves shifted restlessly, working up his courage.
“Against the Pawnee.”
This was relayed to Kicking Bird. Except for a slight widening of his eyes, the medicine man seemed unfazed.
“Why do you want to make war on the Pawnee?” he asked logically. “They have done nothing to you.”
Dances With Wolves thought for a moment.
“They are Comanche enemies.”
Kicking Bird didn’t like it. There was something forced about the request. Dances With Wolves was rushing.
“Only Comanche warriors can go on this ride,” he said flatly.
“I have been a warrior in the white man’s army longer than some of the young men who are going have been apprentices. Some of them are making war for the first time.”
“They have been taught in the Comanche way,” the medicine man said gently. “You have not. The white man’s way is not the Comanche way.”
Dances With Wolves lost a little of his resolve then. He knew he was losing. His voice dropped.
“I cannot learn the Comanche way of war if I stay in camp,” he said lowly.
It was difficult for Kicking Bird. He wished it was not happening.
His affection for Dances With Wolves was deep. The white soldier had been his responsibility, and the white soldier had shown himself to be worthy of the risks Kicking Bird had taken. He was more than worthy.
On the other hand, the medicine man had risen to a high and revered position through the dedicated gathering of wisdom. He was wise now and was able to understand the world well enough to be of great service to his people.
It was between affection for one man and service to his community that Kicking Bird was split. He knew it was no contest. All of his wisdom said it would be wrong to take Dances With Wolves.
As he struggled with the question he heard Dances With Wolves say something to Stands With A Fist.
“He asks that you talk to Ten Bears on this,” she said.
Kicking Bird looked into the hopeful eyes of his protege and hesitated.
“I will do that,” he said.
Dances With Wolves slept poorly that night. He cursed himself for being too excited to sleep. He knew that no decision would be rendered until the next day, and tomorrow seemed too far away. He slept for ten minutes and woke for twenty all through the night. Half an hour before dawn he finally gave it up and went down to the river to bathe.
The idea of waiting around camp for word was unbearable and he jumped at the chance when Wind In His Hair asked if he wanted to go on a buffalo scout. They ranged far to the east, and it was well into the afternoon before they were back in camp.
He let Smiles A Lot take Cisco back to the pony herd and, with his heart beating wildly, stepped into Kicking Bird’s lodge.
No one was there.
He was determined to wait until someone returned, but through the back wall he could hear women’s voices mixed with the clatter of work, and the longer he listened, the less he could imagine what was going on. Not many minutes passed before curiosity drove him outside.
Directly behind Kicking Bird’s home, a few yards from the arbor, he found Stands With A Fist and the medicine man’s wives putting the final touches on a newly erected lodge.
They were stitching the last of the seams and he watched them work for a few moments before he spoke.
“Where’s Kicking Bird?”
“With Ten Bears,” she said.
“I will wait for him,” said Dances With Wolves, turning to go.
“If you want,” she said, not bothering to look up from her work, “you can wait in here.”
She stopped to brush at the beads of sweat running along her temple and faced him.
“We make this for you.”
The talk with Ten Bears didn’t last long, at least the substance of it didn’t.
The old man was in a good mood. His long-suffering bones loved the hot weather, and though he wasn’t going, the prospects for a successful venture against the hated Pawnee delighted him. His grandchildren were round as butterballs from summer feasting, and all three of his wives had been especially cheerful of late.
Kicking Bird could not have picked a better time to see him about a delicate matter.
