horses disappeared downriver. That left seven warriors, including Wind In His Hair and Heavy Runner to investigate the odd camp on the riverbank.
The fires were still going and the big black pots were still bubbling. The men peered into the huge kettles. They could see bits and pieces of things rolling about in the frothy water but could identify nothing. Rifling through the still-pitched tents, they found a stout wooden pole, which they used as a lever to tip over the pots.
The warriors danced back on tiptoe as the scalding water and its contents hit the sand at the edge of the river. Rifle fire cracked in the distance but the Comanches did not lift their eyes. Their eyes were fixed on what lay before them. Two human skulls, cooked nearly to the bone, had rolled out of the mammoth vats and lay steaming on the dark, flat sand. For a few moments they were too stunned to move, but when the initial shock at the grisly discovery had been absorbed, several men fell to their knees and sang death songs. Others turned away to vent their fury on the white man's camp. The boys who had spooked the horses were coming upstream with three captured animals but no one gave them more than a glance.
Heavy Runner and Wind In His Hair jumped onto their horses and ploughed upstream to the unhitched wagon. Throwing back the tarp, they confirmed what they already suspected. The putrefying, headless bodies of two Comanche warriors lay side by side in the wagon's bed.
Within twenty minutes the Comanches had wrapped and tied the bodies and their parts in blankets, slung the macabre parcels over the backs of the American horses, and were riding grimly upriver.
Rounding the first bend in the stream, they spotted the remnants of a large fire on the other side and swung across to investigate. Sprawled across the remnants of the blaze was the charred half-eaten body of a third Comanche warrior. Tonkawa sign was everywhere.
They packed up the corpse in the same way they had the first two, and, wary of possible pursuit, rode long into the night, not stopping until an hour or two before first light.
The party had succeeded. Three of the four dead had been recovered, horses had been captured, a full crate of bullets had been found in one of the soldier tents, and no one had been lost. But there was little talk on the long, sad march home. No stories were swapped about the encounter with the enemy. No laughing or joking or bragging. None of them expressed what was in his heart, because every heart was empty. There was never sweetness in bringing home the dead. And there was little honor in running off a few white men who, unbeknownst to Wind In His Hair and his compatriots, had ventured into the field to retrieve a few aboriginal skulls for scientific study. The heads of the dead that had spilled from the kettles only served to further drain the warriors' spirits. It was debauchery on an inconceivable plane, so vile as to defy explanation.
On the long, silent ride back to the Honey-Eater camp, Wind In His Hair tried to comfort himself with brave thoughts. A Comanche warrior was afraid of nothing. Comanches honored their dead. Comanche people would endure because nothing could kill a spirit fed by the hand of the Mystery. . the Comanche spirit.
He told himself these things many times but in the end there was little solace in such thoughts. The arrival of the bodies in the Honey-Eater village set off a new wave of mourning and a sad overcast settled on the place.
Though they had never been close, Wind In His Hair felt a special sorrow for the family of his brother-in-law, for his was the body that had not been recovered. But what provoked his greatest agony was the nagging, disheartening conclusion that the Honey-Eaters had grown weak, and to feel that he was part of such weakness made his stomach turn.
Having to be a part of an aftermath that saw so many people rendered helpless through the twin blows of grief and horror made him wish only for home, and the day after the rescue party's return, Wind In His Hair gathered up his family and led them north.
He brooded all the way, and when they reached the village a few hours after Smiles A Lot rode out of camp the dark cloud that had settled over Wind In His Hair's spirit was evident to all who saw him. When he was told about the Cheyenne visit and the troubles they were having with the whites he sent a crier to every Hard Shield lodge with the news that an urgent council was being convened.
Wind In His Hair had decided that war must be made on the whites before it was too late. He would make a strong talk for the idea of raising a large party that would travel to the country of the Cheyenne and help them drive the whites out. No one could make an impassioned proposal for war like Wind In His Hair, and it is likely that the Hard Shields would have jumped to their feet at his behest.
But nobody ever did ride up to the country of the Cheyenne, because on that same night Dances With Wolves came in with news that changed everything.
Chapter XII
The village came into view at twilight, about the same time Wind In His Hair's council was getting under way. In addition to his children, seven hunters were with Dances With Wolves. It was the same with his party as it had been with Wind In His Hair's. Joy and laughter had not traveled with them. Even the reliable buoyancy at seeing home again was absent.
They had been on the trail for two weeks but the search for game had yielded practically nothing. They had ranged far to the north, penetrating the Kiowa hunting grounds, but they had found no large herds, only pockets of animals who were so skittish that even the best buffalo-running ponies were hard-pressed to draw alongside. Eight seasoned hunters had managed to fell only two buffalo, most of which had been used to keep Dances With Wolves and his party fed while they looked futilely for more. They were coming back with two robes. Their pack animals carried three deer, shot on the way home because no one could bear to come in with nothing to show for their efforts.
Taking one of the deer, Dances With Wolves, Snake In Hands, and Always Walking broke away as their friends entered the village, taking the long way around to the set-apart lodge sitting on the far side of camp. It would have been easier to cut straight through the village and the few minutes they might have saved would have been welcome, for all three were disheartened and exhausted. But Dances With Wolves rode wide of his home village because he didn't want to see or exchange words with anyone. He wanted Stands With A Fist to be the first person he spoke to. He wanted her ears to be the first to hear because he felt too much for her to be anywhere but face-to-face when she learned the devastating news he carried.
Stands With A Fist and Stays Quiet were waiting outside the lodge when they rode up. It had been her practice to wait through the twilight the past few days in hope that she might see them coming before it got dark. She always got nervous when they were gone more than a week.
She and her daughter began to dance and shout and squeal when they saw them. The incoming riders answered with cries of their own as they urged their tired horses into a last lope.
Seconds later Snake In Hands and Always Walking were in her arms. Both children were played out with fatigue and when Snake In Hands blurted, 'There wasn't any game, Mother,' she looked past him and saw at once that Dances With Wolves was wearing an uncharacteristic expression. It was more a wince than a smile, manufactured with effort.
'No buffalo,' he said with a quick shake of his head. He could not bear to look at her and turned back to pull a single deer from the pack horse. At any other time he might have left the meat where it lay for a few minutes but he was afraid to show her any more of his face and was relieved when he heard her moving the children into their lodge.
As he gazed out at the last light of day he wished for the first time since he could remember that he could be somewhere, anywhere else. It sickened him to feel like this and he wondered, as he had wondered so many times since he happened on the camp of his Kiowa friend Touch The Clouds, if there was some way he could keep what he knew to himself. He laid his forehead against the withers of the pack pony, and sighed a long, sad sigh. His time had run out. He would have to tell her.
Like most women, Stands With A Fist had an uncanny nose for change in her husband. She knew right away that something was wrong. He was avoiding her face, and as the children recounted the adventures of what they called their 'empty hunt,' Dances With Wolves said little. Once in a while she would catch him in a glance and see the same sad smile. It seemed now as if it were painted on and it kept her on edge.
