Ever mindful of lasting impressions, the whites surprised the delegation by moving them to an even grander hotel on the eve of their departure, where they, their agents, their interpreters, and a host of Washington dignitaries were feted in a private banquet room. Before the meal was served the primitives were treated to the spectacle of gaslight as two black-skinned men entered and went from lamp to lamp, creating light out of a metal valve and the application of a spark.
The depth of conviviality that had been reached between Indian and white was amazing. After only a few days of intimacy, white and Indian were familiar enough to sit side by side at a dinner table. They talked, and in several instances Ten Bears noticed they were easy enough other's company to poke fun.
Ten Bears did not find fault with any of it. Nothing was better than peace and goodwill. At the same time, however, he found himself detached, as if he were viewing everything from a distance. He was no longer interested in human affairs. His motivation for living had been reduced to a single, powerful drive, and that was to go home.
The appearance, toward meal's end, of a white man priest, only increased his desire for the prairie. The priest made a long talk, during which he often referred to the black book which the white man said contained instructions from the Mystery. Ten Bears listened attentive, concluding, as did everyone else, that there was much in the book that made sense. But to the old man the appearance of the priest and the talk he made were final confirmation that the holy road should not be walked.
Though it no longer seemed important to do so, he shared his misgivings with Kicking Bird after they retired for the evening to their suite of rooms. Kicking Bird had been taken with many of the priest's ideas about brotherhood and not wanting other men's wives and loving neighbors and not stealing.
'Yes,' Ten Bears agreed, 'the words were good. But he didn't smoke the pipe. He didn't acknowledge the Mystery. These things have to be done.'
“The whites have a different way of doing it,' Kicking Bird answered resignedly.
“They think the Mystery lives in a book. Even a fool knows the Mystery is everywhere. The whites tell us they love the Mystery's instructions, but so far as I can see they don't do anything the Mystery tells them to do. I think the whites believe they are the Mystery.”
In his heart Kicking Bird agreed with Ten Bears, but understanding that the whites were wrong about the world would not aid his cause of helping people adjust to the reservation.
“You're probably right, Grandfather,' he sighed, 'but the whites will not change.'
'No,' Ten Bears replied wistfully, 'they won't change. And neither will I. I want to go to sleep now. Sleep will bring tomorrow, and tomorrow we start for home.'
Ten Bears found the bed to his liking. Kicking Bird, who preferred the floor because it was closer to the earth, performed his nightly ritual of clearing away the rugs to make a place on the wood to spread blankets.
As he was executing this chore, one of the departing rugs revealed a rough spot on the floor about the size of two men laid side by side. The flooring was so cracked and rotted that in some places light shone, through. The white people had used the rug to hide the eyesore but for Kicking Bird it was just right. He was tired of perfect surfaces and happily spread his blankets over the rough spot. Though the night was cold and there was much on his mind, Kicking Bird willed himself straight to sleep.
Ten Bears had a more difficult time of it. As on the night of the council when his village was split forever, he could not shut down his mind. It flitted, uncontrolled, from one disconnected thought to another, teasing the old man toward the border of sleep only to pull him back again.
Exasperated, Ten Bears turned his mind exclusively to landscapes of his homeland but something was still distracting him and, when he opened his eyes, the old man realized that the little fires on the walls were keeping him awake. He swung his feet to the floor, pushed himself off the bed, and went from one fire to another, opening the little grass doors and extinguishing each irritating flame with a puff of his breath.
Back in bed he felt much better. In the darkness his mind began to slow and as he tumbled toward unconsciousness, he saw the prairie in its limitless glory. The grass was waving, the sun was high, the sky was blue, and in the far distance he could see the distinctive dark forms of buffalo grazing. He also saw something coming toward him.
Nothing more than a speck at first, the object came at great speed and suddenly the face of an eagle filled the whole of Ten Bears' vision. Its keen, unblinking eyes were focused solely on Ten Bears but the old man felt no fear.
An instant later Ten Bears realized he was astride the eagle's back. Powered by the great levers of the eagle's wings, they were rising through the mist of earthbound clouds.
Sudden as the turn of a dream, eternal blackness stretched above them. Glittering stars, more stars than could ever be imagined, stood out like particles of dust spinning in a ray of afternoon sun. They covered Ten Bears like falling snow.
Then they went out.
Chapter LIV
Two days later, Kicking Bird and Lawrie Tatum boarded a westbound train, and, though he had made a full recovery and had not been damaged physically, the Comanche was still shaken when he took his seat.
Having no idea how he had been spared made the entire episode impossible to reconcile. How was it that his nose had found and pressed itself into a crack in the wood that provided enough oxygen to keep his body from succumbing to the gas? How was it that he had been found and pulled from the room with what the whites said were minutes to live?
How could it be that Ten Bears' body lay on the floor of a coach a few behind his own, his remains enclosed in one of the white man's death boxes? How could it be that an old man's humble wish to die on the prairie had not been granted? How could the Mystery let it come to this?
Kicking Bird had never felt more helpless. He could not exist in his present state, yet he was powerless to change it. The past was gone, the future was overwhelming, and his life, as he sat inert and shattered, was being measured out minute by minute.
The train jerked ahead and, with each revolution of its wheels, a healing miracle began as well. Knowing that he was moving west drove Kicking Bird's soul forward, and by the time they crossed the span over the Mississippi River, the far-seeing Comanche realized that he was nearly whole again.
Perhaps he was intact once more because he was also feeling a new, exhilarating sense of purpose. The Comanches, whether they knew it or not, had their greatest protector in the man Kicking Bird. It was Kicking Bird who was best qualified to see them through the struggle of change, and this he was resolved to do even if it meant the sacrifice of all he possessed, even his life.
Now he was ready to lay himself down and let his people cross over to the future with all the security his body and spirit could provide.
Chapter LV
The abortive raid on Captain Bradley's column had plunged the hostile camps into chaos, and the news of Ten Bears' death, transmitted by spies filtering in and out of the reservation lands, was marked by a shorter period of mourning than would have been observed in better times. In the frenzy of trying to mount a defense on the run, every day was a desperate struggle, and grief was a luxury that no one could much indulge.
Hunting For Something hacked off her hair, as did Stands With A Fist, and both women gashed their arms and
