and carried him through the dispersing crowd, depositing him in the family lodge across the way. For several hours, Owl Prophet lay in fevered delirium before slipping into a sleep from which he would not wake until twilight of the next day.
People wandered back to their homes drained by the experience, their minds packed with unforgettable images that kept the camp awake long after bedtime.
One who stayed up late was Wind In His Hair. He did not dismiss Owl Prophet's performance. In fact, he was as deeply impressed as anyone. But he was also angered by the turn of events. He snapped at his wives and children before retreating to the special Hard Shield lodge, where he sat for an hour in solitary contemplation, angry that the delicate chemistry of an important raid, so long in planning, had been upset. Owl Prophet had power to be sure. But what about his own? Was his own power to be thrown away because an owl talked? Was the might of all Comanches to be subverted by a spectacular show of prophecy?
The call went out to the Hard Shields that same night and when they assembled in Wind In His Hair's meeting place, he spoke out of his heart, saying that while he could not doubt the truth of Owl Prophet's words, he was not ready to surrender to them either. Owl Prophet might have the ability to speak with the Mystery but he could not guide an arrow to its mark. He had never faced an enemy in battle, and while Wind In His Hair admitted he knew little of magic, he knew how to lead men in war. That was his specialty. He then asked each man at his fire how he felt and if each still wanted to go.
All of them did, and two days later the large party with Wind In His Hair at its head rode into a stiff breeze from the south, leaving behind them the anxious hopes of friends and relatives.
When the bedraggled war party returned it was learned that each part of the prophecy had proven out. There were many guns in Mexico, far too many. Three good warriors had been drowned in floodwaters. The scalp hung in Wind In His Hair's lodge. AIl had been predicted with awesome perfection. Overnight, Owl Prophet's influence increased ten-fold, and when the crier went around two moons after the party's return from Mexico, everyone put aside their business and came to the medicine lodge. This time Wind In His Hair stood at the front of the crowd, fingering the sewn lids of his missing eye, waiting as anxiously as anyone for Owl Prophet to appear.
The medicine man did not consult the owl behind the screen that evening. There was nothing flamboyant about his condition or the words he spoke. He was perfectly matter-of-fact, but the absence of a show did not matter to his audience. They were intent on his every word.
“In less than five sleeps, friends from the north will come to our village,” he announced. “They will bring with them a strange story.”
Chapter VIII
They appeared late in the afternoon four days after Owl Prophet's pronouncement, a long line of travelers occupying a narrow band of light on the horizon, heralded by the hollow boom of thunder from ominous skies.
Wind In His Hair and his family were visiting one of his wives' relations in the south, and Dances With Wolves, accompanied by his two eldest children, had taken a small hunting party off to the east. Everyone else was in camp and they all turned out to greet their friends, the southern Cheyenne.
Because Ten Bears' strongholds were found only in the most far-flung sectors of the measureless space that comprised the Comanche homeland, such visits, especially with the Cheyenne, were extraordinary. From the moment the visitors were sighted an atmosphere of celebration swamped the village.
People rushed to their lodges to make themselves presentable. A welcoming committee was hastily assembled to provide the honored guests with everything they needed: a practical campsite, fresh water, pasture for their animals.
Once the new lodges were erected visiting began in earnest, led as always by young people. Initially shy, children of both tribes were soon tearing around camp, cavorting together as if they had known one another all their lives. The adults followed suit. The Cheyenne were an exotic disruption in the routine of village life, and the isolated Comanches relished the change.
The visitors were generally taller and leaner than their hosts. Their clothing and accessories were different, as were their prayers and taboos and humor. The only thing truly abhorrent about them was their reputation for eating dogs. But since no Comanche had actually witnessed such a barbaric practice, the unsettling quirk was quickly pushed to the back of people's minds so that the best of times could be enjoyed.
The Cheyenne leader, a stately, elegant man of middle age whose name was Wolf Robe, immediately paid a visit to Ten Bears. The men had met twice over the years, and their acquaintance, though slight, made this occasion a reunion. Wolf Robe and his band were on an expedition to Mexican traders in the west and sought permission to camp with the Comanche for a few days before proceeding on, that is if water and game were plentiful. Ten Bears insisted that was the case. The old man also insisted that Wolf Robe and his leading warriors come to dinner that night, suggesting Kicking Bird's lodge as a good site for the feast.
The dinner at Kicking Bird's was the last of many on a night when everyone stayed up late. The children were too excited to sleep, and so were the adults. There were many new people to meet and, like all Indian get- togethers, the trading began at once, not stopping until the Cheyenne left. People began to eat and that didn't stop, either. On the first night the camp crier announced half a dozen calls to eat at various Comanche homes.
Men with high standing from both tribes filtered in and out of the public dinners. They enjoyed themselves bur they ate little and expended little energy. The feasts of real importance, feasts they could not miss, were coming later. The Hard Shields were sponsoring a party for their Cheyenne counterparts, a handful of Dog Soldiers who were riding with Wolf Robe. That was to be followed by the gathering at Kicking Bird's, where information of real weight was to be exchanged. It had been announced as a dinner, but everyone knew it was to be a high level council.
As might have been expected, the meeting of the two warrior societies was a full-throated, free-wheeling orgy of anecdotes concerning combat and hunting raced with hilarious stories, many of them off-color. At its conclusion an intermission of almost an hour was observed, giving people time to make ready for the rendezvous at Kicking Bird's lodge.
Comanche men arrived first. The most influential placed themselves around the fire next to Kicking Bird and Ten Bears. Then a constant stream of Comanche men, their thick hair combed and oiled, their shirts and leggings and moccasins resplendent with beadwork, their scalplocks and ears and fingers festooned with sparkling metal, flowed into the lodge until it was bulging. They sat or stood quietly, uttering nothing above a murmur as they waited for their guests to come.
The Cheyenne arrived shortly after the last Comanches had wedged themselves into the tent.
Led by Wolf Robe, they came as one, and, though the Comanche men looked formidable, the Cheyenne warriors ducking into Kicking Bird's lodge eclipsed them. It was as if a delegation of gods had alighted from a cloud to file mutely into a common lodge, their glistening copper faces masks of dignity, their every movement a testament to the impeccable grace of power. The twelve men were part of a very few who lived at the pinnacle of Cheyenne manhood. They had endured every privation their wild country could produce. They had survived the illnesses and accidents of youth to reach maturity. They had triumphed over the hazards of the hunt and each of them had survived combat many times. The sullen, confident men filing inside that night represented the finest blood, the richest essence of all Cheyenne life. To call them gods might have seemed far-fetched in another society but in their world no greater men existed.
When Wolf Robe appeared Ten Bears was helped to his feet, and though he stood unsteadily, the old man's face was bright with animation as he welcomed his guests to the fire and cordially invited them to be seated. Ten Bears drew his pipe from its case and there was silence as the smoking began.
It was silent outside as well, which was unusual because a meeting of this gravity normally attracted eavesdroppers who pressed close to the walls in hope of hearing what passed inside. On this night, however the vicinity around Kicking Bird's lodge was deserted. People were worn out from eating and visiting, and from overtired children who had stayed up too late. Nonetheless, they would have come had there been anything to hear. But anyone trying to listen would have been disappointed because this council was not being conducted by voice. The
