In all his life he had learned nothing of the white man. He could count on one hand the times he had seen them. How could he begin to pursue peace with people he had never met? How could he meet such people? How could he talk to them? How could he understand them? He might as well dream of reaching up and pulling the moon from its eternal mooring.
All that Ten Bears could do was what he was doing now: sit in the shade of the arbor that had been erected next to his lodge and observe as best he could through his foggy eyes and pick at the bowl of pemmican Hunting For Something had brought. The afternoon sojourns he enjoyed had been disrupted, and the old man decided that the little value left in his existence could best be served by exercising the gift of listening to people's blood.
He passed several afternoons in this manner and had formed a number of useful conclusions. The people of the village, despite their industry, were still burdened by sorrow. They worked, but without the traditional gaiety that leavened labor. The children played, but joy was absent from their games. Coveys of women hauled water and tanned hides and cooked communal meals without the normal laughter. Impromptu gatherings of warriors were convened, but the manly spirit was missing.
Though he had always tended toward reticence, Kicking Bird had been positively mute since his return from Kiowa country. His way of looking forward had been a goad for activity but when Ten Bears saw him now, he was invariably alone. When he came close enough to offer a salutation, on one occasion squatting directly in front of Ten Bears for a brief inquiry as to his health, the old man had the opportunity to penetrate the mask of pain Kicking Bird wore in common with everyone else. What he saw were sparks and what he heard was a rushing of blood that made his ears ring. In the few seconds Kicking Bird sat before him, Ten Bears became convinced that the former medicine man was engaged deeply, turbulently, in thought. What he might be thinking Ten Bears did not know, but he was convinced that Kicking Bird was soon to leave the village again.
Wind In His Hair had come by a few times to acknowledge Ten Bears in the same fleeting fashion. The rangers had killed two of his wives and five of the seven children he had sired, but the great warrior made no mention of his family's demolition. Nor did he speak of his plans in their brief encounters, but the old man did not have to listen very hard to hear his blood-simply to know him was to know what Wind In His Hair would do. Like a cornered panther, Wind In His Hair would fight. When he might move, and with what force, was all that remained to be seen.
The blood of Dances With Wolves was the hardest to hear, and Ten Bears could only guess at the depth of his suffering. Just once had he stopped at the door of the lodge, and then he had barely spoken as he placed a prime cut of buffalo haunch inside the flap. Ten Bears had been sitting inside smoking and when their eyes met, Dances With Wolves had said, 'For you, Grandfather,' then ducked out of sight.
In subsequent days, Ten Bears saw him venture out to hunt only twice. The rest of the time he was indoors, and most often his children could be seen just outside their lodge, for they never went anywhere without their father. Snake In Hands no longer ran after snakes and Always Walking now stayed put, except in the company of their father. The boy and girl played with other children only if they came around, and Dances With Wolves had few visitors so far as Ten Bears could tell.
The old man viewed everything with the detachment of age. He had finally accepted what had come to pass, and the fretting he had engaged in so often before the ranger attack all but ceased. It was replaced now with a simple curiosity as to how everything might turn out, and nothing piqued his interest more than the goings-on in the lodge directly across the way from his own.
That particular lodge represented what was left of the joy in life for Ten Bears. It reminded him of the new growth that emerges from the prairie after the grass has been scorched to nothing by fire. He was thankful to be close enough to see the comings and goings there, and watching them was his only pleasure.
In normal times this family configuration could never have happened, but catastrophe had necessitated many odd jugglings of lives. The landing together of the three souls across the way violated more rules of tribal conduct than could be counted. In times past such a thing would not have been tolerated, and if a couple like the one living near Ten Bears had persisted they might face expulsion from the group, a punishment reserved for the most heinous public crimes.
But time and custom had been turned upside down, and not an eyebrow was raised against the union of Smiles A Lot and Hunting For Something and their surrogate son, Rabbit. Circumstance had deprived each of their families. She needed a provider and he needed a supporter. Together they were building something out of nothing and, far from being an embarrassment, they quickly became a prideful symbol of Comanche resilience. That the girl's grandfather, the venerable and unassailable Ten Bears, made no objection to the unsanctified union rendered it palatable to the strictest among them, and the young couple went about the business of life unimpeded.
As before, Hunting For Something came every day, making sure her grandfather had something to eat. Rabbit was in and out of the lodge at all hours, and most evenings Smiles A Lot kept the old man company for an hour or two, listening to stories of adventure and heroism and funny anecdotes.
The presence of this odd trio was a tonic for Ten Bears, invigorating him with a sense of belonging he had not felt since the last of his wives died. The old man sat in the shade of his arbor, his despair tempered by the closeness of his new, made-up family.
'Hunting For Something!'
'Hello, Grandfather.'
Chapter XXI
The three warriors upon whose actions the fate of their people might depend did make up their minds, just as Ten Bears knew they would, and they divulged their plans to him in separate visits on the same day.
Ten Bears had actually dreamt such a scenario the night before, and so he was not surprised when Kicking Bird appeared at his door in the early morning, asking to talk.
The two men smoked a pipe in silence, and when the bowl was exhausted, Ten Bears knocked the ash deftly into his flameless fire and said in an offhand way, 'You have been thinking a lot.'
Kicking Bird smiled. 'Yes, Grandfather. I have been thinking since I came back from Touch The Clouds' camp.'
He then revealed all that had happened during his visit to the Kiowas, describing in detail his encounter with the white man Lawrie Tatum, placing particular emphasis on the Quaker's offer of protection and support for those who loved peace and would be willing to follow the white man's 'holy road.'
As he finished his fascinating story Kicking Bird withdrew his own pipe and tamped a few pinches of tobacco into the bowl.
'Did you smoke the pipe with this man?' Ten Bears asked.
'We smoked the pipe.'
'His words were true?'
'There was nothing to show they were not. I have decided to go back up there and find Lawrie Tatum and talk to him some more.”
Ten Bears nodded, then lapsed into thought. The men smoked in silence, passing Kicking Bird's pipe back and forth.
'I am wondering,' Ten Bears began at last. 'This white man's holy road. . how can Comanches take a road they have never traveled. . how can they take a road where everything is new and strange and still be Comanches? How can they be happy?'
Kicking Bird listened as he sucked at the pipe and sent a long stream of smoke curling toward the hole in Ten Bears' lodge.
