Chapter XLIII
The return of those who had been given up for dead was universally accepted as a good — and long-overdue — omen.
But the giddy first reaction was quickly replaced by doubts and speculations. What would Dances With Wolves, decision be? Could he possibly go in? How could he stay? When the white soldiers chased them, as they were sure to do, what would he do? His dilemma seemed intractable, and a few people came to the conclusion that he should leave.
Stands With A Fist was more withdrawn than people remembered, and even after the trauma of her captivity was taken into account, there were some who wondered at the integrity of her Comanche spirit.
The most jittery people in the village, people who worried constantly over their lives and bellies, looked at the Dances With Wolves children and saw the burden of three more mouths.
Stays Quiet had come home with a deep cough and a high fever but Owl Prophet, who had great skills in the application of medicine, quickly cured her. Yet there were still those who thought that it was a bad idea to have let anyone with a white man disease into the village.
Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist — and to a lesser degree, the children — could not help but sense the subtle shifts in attitude. He had felt it from the moment the village saw him in white man clothes. People had regarded him with a tangle of astonishment and confusion, and for a few minutes it was hard for them to believe he was speaking Comanche.
There were still traces of doubt and hostility when he counciled with Wind In His Hair and a dozen others the night he came back. He gave a brief review of his journey, and even though the men laughed heartily over humorous highlights of his adventure, a few left the distinct impression that they were uncomfortable to have him sitting among them.
Wind In His Hair told of the white ultimatum and Kicking Bird's departure with half the village, and even after he responded unflinchingly with the simple declaration that he was a Hard Shield, Dances With Wolves was certain that some who had seen him in the white man clothes were having a hard time seeing him any other way. Ironically, the only man he was certain regarded him as a brother was Wind In His Hair.
To the dismay of many friends, Stands With A Fist was close-mouthed about her abduction and captivity at the hands of the whites, responding to the gentlest inquiries intractably.
'I don't want to talk about it,' she would say. 'I'm home.'
She, too, had worn the white clothes and it was clear that some were having trouble letting that image pass. At first she was unsettled but, like her husband, Stands With A Fist had never felt complete acceptance and quickly realized that things were the same as they had always been. One realization led to another, and a few days after their arrival a peace she had never experienced before overtook her. She was too Comanche to be white and too white to be Comanche, and there was nothing to be done about it. It was useless to fight or fear what she could not control.
They were going to stay out because they had no choice and, once they had discussed it, she and Dances With Wolves felt a renewal of their reliance on each other and their children. Whatever awaited them they would leave to fate. They shared their feelings on the shifting attitudes of fellow tribesmen and found they shared a mutual conclusion. They didn't care much what anyone thought. Living the Comanche way suited them.
Naturally, they were concerned about their children. The ranks of friends and playmates had thinned, but neither Snake In Hands nor Always Walking seemed to mind. The mobilization of the village affected them little and, though their parents dreaded the possibility of leading them into pain or misery Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist agreed that the family was better off together than apart. They would do all they could to keep the young ones from harm, but they had no illusions. Death always had a place on the prairie, at all times.
The more they talked of these things, the closer they got. Snake In Hands and Always Walking had heard of the ultimatum and the threat it posed, but they asked few questions and the family was united as never before.
In the days the village marched north and west in search of buffalo the doubts other people harbored began to evaporate. The family who had always lived in a lodge set apart went about the business of their lives as if the monumental dilemma they faced did not exist and, instead of engendering doubt, their presence began to achieve the opposite effect of —- confidence.
By the time a herd of several thousand buffalo was located and the village made enough meat to sustain it through the winter, there were no longer reservations about the Dances With Wolves family. All talk had shifted to the white soldiers everyone knew would be coming into the country and impromptu councils seemed to dominate the social life of the village.
Not knowing white culture, however, left many gaps which were filled with unquenchable conjecture. What weapons might the soldiers bring with them? How many blue-coated men might be sent out? Would they be good riders? Would they have good scouts? Would they be willing to fight? Invariably, the speculations focused on a single name that was spoken so often that men, women, and even children invoked it as if it belonged to someone they knew. The white people always followed one man in war and it was widely agreed that the one called Bad Hand was likely to lead them. But no one knew what kind of man he was and talk of what he might do led nowhere. Even Dances With Wolves knew nothing about him.
Chapter XLIV
The defenders of the plains gave no thought to the personal life of General Mackenzie. His marital status, his fondness certain foods, the highs and lows of his young life — none of these was the sort of issue Indians pondered. They were concerned only with the practical question of how brave he might be, how shrewd and how determined he would prove to be in the field.
The answer, had they known it, would have been unsettling.
In the field, General Mackenzie was a living fusion of strength and perseverance. He faced the most heinous weather, the roughest terrain, the severest privation with equanimity, regarding them as mere annoying impediments to bringing the enemy to heel. Though his marches routinely strained human endurance, and despite his frequent, inexplicable explosions of rage, many men were eager to serve under him because Mackenzie's name was synonymous with success.
Yet for all that was known about the handsome officer who performed formed so brilliantly, his true identity was a mystery. Beneath the of his existence ran a dark, angry river of pain, unseen by all but the man whose life it ruled with unrelenting cruelty. Pain was Ranald Mackenzie's sole and constant companion. He ate and slept with it, laughed with it, defecated with it, and dreamt with it. It accompanied him through every waking moment and released him only for brief naps at night.
His face was untouched but beneath the uniform his body was covered with a latticework of wounds and attendant scarring, a secret world throbbing with torment. An angry tear that made the stumps on his hand trivial in comparison ran in a jagged line down the middle of his left pectoral and along the rib cage. The jumble of scar tissue twinged with every breath as did the tenuously grafted breaks in his ribs.
Several pieces of lead, embedded in his knee and hip, grated against bone at the slightest movement and provided him with advance, if painful, knowledge of changes in the weather. A twice broken shoulder often ached as if a knife blade were embedded in bone and gristle, cutting him repeatedly as he rocked back and forth in the saddle.
For years he had gotten no relief. Often the pain would radiate across his torso with such vengeance that he
