in the darkness of early morning and slipped unnoticed into Dances With Wolves’s tipi. There they would lie together until first light, whispering their conversations as they held each other naked under the robe.
All in all they did as well as could be expected of two people who had surrendered completely to love. They were dignified and prudent and disciplined.
And they fooled almost no one.
Everyone in the camp who was old enough to know what love between a man and a woman looked like could see it in the faces of Stands With A Fist and Dances With Wolves.
Most people could not find it in their hearts to condemn love, no matter what the circumstances. Those few who might have taken offense held their tongues for lack of proof. Most important, their attraction was no threat to the band at large. Even the older, conservative elements admitted to themselves that the potential union made sense.
After all, they were both white.
On the fifth night after the meeting at the river, Stands With A Fist had to see him again. She had been waiting for everyone in Kicking Bird’s lodge to fall asleep. Long after the sounds of light snoring filled the tipi, she was waiting, wanting to make sure her leaving would go unnoticed.
She had just realized that the smell of rain was strong in the air when sudden yapping of excited voices broke the stillness. The voices were loud enough to wake everyone, and seconds later they were throwing aside bedding to rush outside.
Something had happened. The whole village was up. She hurried down the main avenue with a throng of other people, all of them heading for a big fire that seemed to be the center of attention. In the chaos she looked vainly for Dances With Wolves, but it wasn’t until she had pushed close to the fire that she could see him.
As they sifted through the crowd to one another she noticed new Indians huddled by the fire. There were half a dozen of them. Several more men were sprawled on the ground, some of them dead, some of them horribly injured. They were Kiowas, longtime friends and hunting partners of the Comanche.
The six men who were untouched were wild with fear. They were gesticulating anxiously, talking in signs to Ten Bears and two or three close advisers. The onlookers were hushed and expectant as they watched the Kiowa story unfold.
She and Dances With Wolves had nearly closed the space between them when women began to scream. A moment later the assembly came to pieces as women and children ran for their lodges, careening into each other in their panic. Warriors were boiling around Ten Bears, and one word was coming from the mouths of everyone. It was rolling through the village in the same way that thunder had begun to tremble through the black skies overhead.
It was a word that Dances With Wolves knew well, for he had heard it many times in conversations and stories.
“Pawnee.”
With Stands With A Fist at his side, he pressed closer to the warriors crowding around Ten Bears. She talked into his ear as they watched, telling him what had happened to the Kiowa.
They had started out as a small group, less than twenty men, looking for buffalo about ten miles north of the Comanche camp. There they were hit by a huge Pawnee war party, at least eighty warriors, maybe more. They’d been attacked in the afterglow of sunset and none of them would have escaped were it not for darkness and a superior knowledge of the countryside.
They’d covered the retreat as best they could, but with such a large army, it was only a matter of time before the Pawnee would locate this camp. It was possible they had moved into position even now. The Kiowas thought there would be a few hours at most to get ready. That there would be an attack, probably made at dawn, was a foregone conclusion.
Ten Bears began giving orders that neither Stands With A Fist nor Dances With Wolves could hear. It was clear from the old man’s expression, however, that he was worried. Ten of the band’s most distinguished warriors were out with Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair. The men left behind were good fighters, but if there were eighty Pawnee coming, they would be dangerously outnumbered.
The meeting around the fire broke up in a curious kind of anarchy, lesser warriors marching off in different directions behind the man they felt would best lead them.
Dances With Wolves had an uneasy feeling. Everything seemed so disorganized. The thunder overhead was coming at closer intervals and rain seemed inevitable. It would help to cover the Pawnee approach.
But it was his village now, and he dashed after Stone Calf with only one thought in mind.
“I will follow you,” he said when he had caught up.
Stone Calf eyed him grimly.
“This will be a hard fight,” he said. “The Pawnee never come for horses. They come for blood.”
Dances With Wolves nodded.
“Get your weapons and come to my lodge,” the older warrior ordered.
“I’ll get them,” Stands With A Fist volunteered, and with her dress hitched up around her calves, she took off at a run, leaving Dances With Wolves to follow Stone Calf.
He was trying to calculate how many rounds he had for the rifle and his Navy revolver when he remembered something that stopped him in his tracks.
“Stone Calf,” he shouted. “Stone Calf.”
The warrior turned back to him.
“I have guns,” Dances With Wolves blurted. “In the ground near the white man’s fort there are many guns.”
They made an immediate about-face and returned to the fire.
Ten Bears was still questioning the Kiowa hunters.
The poor men, already half-crazed at the trauma of nearly losing their lives, shrank at the sight of Dances With Wolves, and it took some quick talking to get them calmed down.
Ten Bears’s face jumped when Stone Calf told him there were guns.
“What guns?” he asked anxiously.
“White soldier guns . . . rifles,” answered Dances With Wolves.
It was a hard decision for Ten Bears. Though he approved of Dances With Wolves, there was something in his old Comanche blood that didn’t fully trust the white man. The guns were in the ground and it would take them time to dig them up. The Pawnee might be close now and he needed every man to defend the village. There was the long ride to the white man’s fort to consider. And the rain would be coming any minute.
But the fight was going to be a close one, and he knew that guns could make a big difference. Chances were the Pawnee didn’t have many. Dawn was still hours away, and there was enough time to make the round trip to the hair-mouth fort.
“The guns are in boxes. . . . They are covered with wood,” Dances With Wolves said, interrupting his thoughts. “We will need only a few men and travois to bring them back.”
The old man had to make the gamble. He told Stone Calf to take Dances With Wolves, along with two other men and six ponies, four for riding and two for carrying the guns. He told them to go quickly.
When he got to his lodge Cisco was bridled and standing in front. A fire was going inside and Stands With A Fist was squatting next to it, mixing something in a small bowl.
His weapons, the rifle, the big Navy, the bow, the quiver stuffed with arrows, and the long-bladed knife, were laid out neatly on the floor.
He was strapping on the Navy when she brought the bowl to him.
“Give me your face,” she commanded.
He stood still as she daubed at the red substance in the bowl with one of her fingers.
“This is for you to do, but there is no time and you don’t know how. I will do it for you.”
