'And what do you want them to eat? White man biscuits that soften the teeth and make them fall out? ' Wind In His Hair threw his arms out declaratively. 'I want my children to grow on buffalo!'
A smattering of cheers erupted around the lodge and Wind In His Hair turned his fearful gaze on Kicking Bird once again.
'Comanche warriors defend their country and everything in it. They defend their brother the buffalo. What does Kicking Bird do? He sits at the feet of the whites like a child. He takes the puny hands of the enemy in his own while his relations fight and die. You are dirty with white men. You talk like a woman. . like a coward!'
The two warriors rushed each other but their charges were blunted by the lightning appearance of Smiles A Lot. His recent integration of self allowed him the freedom to move without thought, and he had started up as Wind In His Hair's verbal assault reached its apex.
Now he stood spread-legged between the warriors, his hands grasping each of their shirts.
'You cannot fight!' he shouted. 'Not in our grandfather's lodge! Do not bring disgrace on him.'
The warriors understood the rightness of Smiles A Lot's words and, as their tempers cooled, they looked down on Ten Bears. The old man was the picture of serenity. The would-be combatants glanced at each other sheepishly and offered apologies to Ten Bears.
'Forgive me, Grandfather,' they both said, almost in unison. Ten Bears acted as if he had not heard and did not look up as Wind In His Hair bent close to his face.
'Do not take offense, Grandfather, but the air in your lodge tonight has grown too stale for me to breathe. I wish you good night.'
With that the one-eyed warrior swept out, followed by the Hard Shields. The rest of the council was breaking up as he departed, but, unlike the many warriors who shared Wind In His Hair's views, there was no unity among those who thought of peace. They walked out in mute little groups of two and three without speaking to Kicking Bird, who in the end found himself alone with Ten Bears.
The old man continued to smoke serenely, the glasses still fixed on his face, and after rejecting a multitude of parting comments, Kicking Bird settled on a simple good night and walked alone into the night.
No one could give him comfort, and Kicking Bird dragged his wounded heart into the special lodge, where he sat long into the night, struggling to recompose his shattered spirits. His dream of a workable rapport with the whites lay in pieces. He had lost the support of his staunchest adherents, men who had trusted his initiatives. Worse, he had lost face and could no longer expect that anyone would listen when he spoke.
In his misery Kicking Bird let his mind drift into the past. There his memory drew out the glory of difficult hunts, hairbreadth escapes, successful defenses, and a succession of enemies fleeing before the tidal might of Comanche warriors. Sifting through strong-hearted memories salved his despair and reminded him of the central role he played in the history of his generation.
It was true that he had always been curious about what lay beyond camp and had sought to find ways of living that would make his people more secure. But the memories he had sought as a balm told him emphatically that he had always been a warrior, and as he smoked into the night, he heard Wind In His Hair's harsh words so often that he began to believe there was truth in what his old friend said. perhaps he had capitulated too soon. Perhaps he had deceived himself into throwing his warrior's heart away. Perhaps he had forgotten to defend his country and everything in it, especially the buffalo. Perhaps he had taken the coward's trail.
Restless, he stood up, and as he rose, found himself acutely aware of the vitality that still coursed through his body.
A few minutes later Kicking Bird summoned runners to carry a message to the Kiowa and Arapaho and Cheyenne. He woke the crier and instructed him to spread the news at first light. Kicking Bird was getting up a party of all who wanted to follow. This party was to strike a blow for the buffalo. It would sweep the prairies clean of the scourge that was destroying the animal without whom free people could not live.
Chapter XXX
Though he had worn them for many days he could not get comfortable in the white man clothes. They bound him in places where his joints met, scratching, chafing, and itching his flesh.
But the irritation of strange clothes was nothing in comparison to the processes of thought. He had not expected the pressure to be so great. It suffocated and squeezed him in every waking moment. It danced in his sleep, and no matter how much rest he got, there was no sensation of renewal in waking. His mind was so exhausted by the rigors of navigating an alien world that it was sometimes impossible to close it down and go to sleep.
Locating her, he thought, would be the easiest part of his mission. But it was not, and the white man pretending to be a white man quickly realized that he could not inquire about her whereabouts without knowing her white name. Without that his search was entirely dependent on luck.
The dying men of the corn train had swung open long-closed doors to remembrance with their cries for mercy. Like Stands With A Fist, he was startled at how easy it was to find his mother tongue and use it. But he had also recalled how huge the white man's country was. She might have been sent to one of countless villages and towns far to the east. The rangers might have killed her and Stays Quiet. Maybe they had contracted a white man disease and died and been put into the ground. Thoughts like these intruded without warning and had to be beaten down with the same vigor a fire is beaten with a blanket. The one scenario he did not torture himself with was the possibility that Stands With A Fist might want to remain among the whites. That was inconceivable, and he never thought of it.
It had been difficult to cut his own hair, more so his son's. The boy had begun to cry something he was not known to do, as the knife sawed through handfuls of his hair. He had continues to sob off and on through the whole of one day, then became sullen, speaking only when spoken to. If his father called him by name, he would answer, “Snake In Hands is not here. He's lost.'
Always Walking continually pestered him with the complaint, “Father, I don't feel good.'
Trying to keep his children content was, however, the least of his problems. From the moment he began the charade, Dances With Wolves felt the penetrating stare of white eyes. Wherever he went he felt watched, as if he were moving about the white world unclothed.
In the early days of their search the trio had kept to themselves, traveling at night to avoid contact with the whites. They had stolen saddles for their horses from a farmer's barn, and the theft went unnoticed until they were well away.
But as they journeyed deeper into the country of the enemy, clothing the children became essential, and on the fourth day of their quest, after secreting them on a high hill, Dances With Wolves swung into the saddle and rode down to the settlement that lay below. He rode with as much confidence as could be expected. He had practiced the old language to the point of tedium and had discovered a wad of white man paper money in a pocket of the dead driver's trousers.
As he passed the crude buildings that comprised the settlement he saw dry goods through a window and turned his pony in that direction. Stepping off, he straightened himself, brushed his jacket, and went inside.
The storekeeper, a short man with red hair on his face, eyed him but said nothing, and Dances With Wolves browsed the shelves for a minute or two, rehearsing what he would say. The corpulent merchant's attention had sharpened at the sight of a stranger. Strangers were an uncommon commodity. Sometimes they meant trouble. The stranger's hair was odd, more chopped than cut, and his skin looked scorched, as if he had been sleeping in the sun. A drunk often did that, and drunks never had money. This man didn't look like a drinker, and he didn't stink of liquor, but he seemed tentative in his every movement, whether he was fingering some item or just gazing at the shelves. By the time his strange customer paused in front of the modest supply of clothing on hand, the shopkeeper had
