All day long young men could be found hanging around his lodge. Maidens flirted openly with him. His name was foremost in everyone’s thoughts. No conversation, regardless of subject, could run its course without some mention of Dances With Wolves.
The ultimate accolade came from Ten Bears. In a gesture previously unknown, he presented the hero with a pipe from his own lodge.
Dances With Wolves liked the attention, but he did nothing to encourage it. The instant and lasting celebrity pressured the management of his days. It seemed that someone was always underfoot. Worst of all, it gave him little private time with Stands With A Fist.
Of all the people in camp, he was perhaps the most relieved to see the return of Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair.
After several weeks on the trail they had yet to engage the enemy when sudden and unseasonable snow flurries caught them in the foothills of a mountain range.
Interpreting this as a sign of an early and savage winter, Kicking Bird had called off the expedition and they had flown home to make preparations for the big move south.
CHAPTER XXVII
If the party had any misgivings about returning empty-handed, they were washed away with the incredible news of the Pawnee rout.
One immediate side effect of the homecoming was that it reduced the heat of celebrity that Dances With Wolves had been subjected to. He was no less revered, but because of their traditional high standing, much attention was shifted back to Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair, and something approximating the old routine was reestablished.
Though he made no public demonstration, Kicking Bird was astounded by Dances With Wolves’s progress. His bravery and ability in repelling the Pawnee attack could not be overlooked, but it was his progress as a Comanche, particularly his mastery of the language, that moved the medicine man.
He had sought only to learn something of the white race, and it was hard, even for a man of Kicking Bird’s experience, to accept the fact that this lone white soldier, who months ago had never seen an Indian, was now a Comanche.
Harder to believe was that he had become a leader of other Comanches. But the evidence was there for all to see: in the young men who sought him out and in the way all the people talked.
Kicking Bird could not figure out why all this had happened. He finally came to the conclusion that it was just another part of the Great Mystery that surrounded the Great Spirit.
It was fortunate that he was able to accept these rapid developments. It helped pave the way for yet another surprise. His wife told him about it as they lay in bed on his first night back.
“Are you certain of this?” he asked, thoroughly confounded. “This is hard for me to believe.”
“When you see them together, you will know,” she whispered confidentially. “It is there for all to see.”
“Does it seem a good thing?”
His wife answered this question with a giggle.
“Isn’t it always a good thing?” she teased, squeezing a little closer to him.
First thing next morning Kicking Bird appeared at the celebrity’s lodge flap, his face so clouded that Dances With Wolves was taken aback.
They exchanged greetings and sat down.
Dances With Wolves had just begun to pack his new pipe when Kicking Bird, in an unusual display of bad manners, interrupted his host.
“You are speaking well,” he said.
Dances With Wolves stopped working the tobacco into the bowl.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I like to speak Comanche.”
“Then tell me . . . what is this between you and Stands With A Fist?”
Dances With Wolves nearly dropped his pipe. He stammered a few unintelligible sounds before he finally got something coherent out.
“What do you mean?’”
Kicking Bird’s face flushed angrily as he repeated himself.
“Is there something between you and her?”
Dances With Wolves didn’t like this tone. His answer was framed like a challenge.
“I love her.”
“You want to marry her?”
“Yes.”
Kicking Bird thought on this. He would have objected to love for its own sake, but he could find nothing to disapprove of so long as it was housed in matrimony.
He got to his feet.
“Wait here in the lodge,” he said sternly. Before Dances With Wolves could reply, the medicine man was gone.
He would have said yes at any rate. Kicking Bird’s brusque manner had put the fear of God into him. He sat where he was.
Kicking Bird made stops at Wind In His Hair’s and Stone Calf’s lodges, staying about five minutes in each tipi.
As he walked back to his own lodge, he found himself shaking his head again. Somehow he had expected this. But it was still baffling.
Ah, the Great Mystery, he sighed to himself. I always try to see it coming, but I never do.
She was sitting in the lodge when he came in.
“Stands With A Fist,” he snapped, bringing her to attention. “You are no longer a widow.”
With that, he retreated back through the lodge flap and went to find his favorite pony. He needed a long, solitary ride.
Dances With Wolves hadn’t been waiting long when Wind In His Hair and Stone Calf appeared outside his door. He could see them peeking inside.
“What are you doing in there?” Wind In His Hair asked.
“Kicking Bird told me to wait.”
Stone Calf smiled knowingly.
“You might have to wait awhile.” He chuckled. “Kicking Bird rode out onto the prairie a few minutes ago. It looked like he was taking his time.”
Dances With Wolves didn’t know what to do or say. He noticed a smirk on Wind In His Hair’s face.
“Can we come in?” the big warrior asked slyly.
“Yes, please . . . please, sit down.”
The two visitors took seats in front of Dances With Wolves. They were smug as schoolboys.
