CHAPTER XX
They spent less than three full days in the temporary camp, and three days is a short time in which to undergo extensive change.
But that’s what happened.
Lieutenant Dunbar’s course in life shifted.
There was no single, bombastic event to account for the shift. He had no mystic visions. God did not make an appearance. He was not dubbed a Comanche warrior.
There was no moment of proof, no obvious relic of evidence a person could point to and say it was here or there, at this time or that.
It was as if some beautiful, mysterious virus of awakening that had been long in incubation finally came to the forefront of his life.
The morning after the hunt he woke with rare clarity. There was no hangover of sleep, and the lieutenant thought consciously about how long it had been since he’d woken like this. Not since he was a boy.
His feet were sticky, so he picked up his boots and crept past the sleepers in the lodge, hoping he would find a place outside to wash between his toes. He found the spot as soon as he stepped out of the tipi. The grass-covered prairie was soaked with dew for miles.
Leaving his boots next to the lodge, the lieutenant walked toward the east, knowing that the pony herd was out there somewhere. He wanted to check on Cisco.
The first rosy streaks of dawn had broken through the darkness and he watched them in awe as he walked, oblivious to the pant legs that were already sopping with dew.
Every day begins with a miracle, he thought suddenly.
The streaks were growing larger, changing colors by the second.
Whatever God may be, I thank God for this day.
He liked the words so much that he said them out loud.
“Whatever God may be, I thank God for this day.”
The heads of the first horses appeared, their pricked ears silhouetted against the dawn. He could see the head of an Indian, too. It was probably that boy who smiled all the time.
He found Cisco without much trouble. The buckskin nickered at his approach and the lieutenant’s heart swelled a little. His horse laid his soft muzzle against Dunbar’s chest and the two of them stood still for a few moments, letting the morning cool hang over them. The lieutenant gently lifted Cisco’s chin and blew breath into each of his nostrils.
Overcome with curiosity, the other horses began to press in around them, and before they could become annoying, Lieutenant Dunbar slipped a bridle over Cisco’s head and started back to camp.
Going in the opposite direction was just as impressive as coming out. The temporary village was tuned perfectly to nature’s clock, and like the day, it was slowly coming to life.
A few fires had started, and in the short time he’d been gone, it seemed as though everyone had gotten up. As the light grew brighter, like the gradual turning of a lamp, the figures moving about the camp did, too.
“What harmony,” the lieutenant said flatly as he walked with one arm slung over Cisco’s withers.
Then he lapsed into a deep and complex line of abstract thought concerning the virtues of harmony, which stuck to him all the way through breakfast.
They went out again that morning, and Dunbar killed another buffalo. This time he held Cisco well in check during the charge, and instead of plunging into the herd, he searched the fringe for a likely animal and rode it down. Though he took great care with his aim, the first shot was high and a second bullet was needed to finish the job.
The cow he took was large, and he was complimented on his good selection by a score of warriors who rode by to inspect his kill. There wasn’t the same kind of excitement that attended the first day’s hunting. He didn’t eat any fresh liver this day, but in every way, he felt more competent.
Once again women and children flooded onto the plain for the butchering, and by late afternoon the temporary camp was overflowing with meat. Uncounted drying racks, sagging under the weight of thousands of pounds of meat, sprang up like toadstools after a downpour, and there was more feasting on fresh-roasted delicacies.
The youngest warriors and a number of boys not ready for the warpath organized a horse-racing tournament shortly after they returned to camp. Smiles A Lot had his heart set on riding Cisco. He made his request with such respect that the lieutenant could not refuse him, and several races had been run before he realized to his horror that the winners were being given the horses of the losers. He rooted for Smiles A Lot with the fingers of both hands crossed, and fortunately for the lieutenant, the boy had won all three of his races.
Later on there was gambling, and Wind In His Hair got the lieutenant into a game. Except for being played with dice, it was unfamiliar, and learning the ropes cost Dunbar his whole tobacco supply. Some of the players were interested in the pants with the yellow stripes, but having already traded away his hat and tunic, the lieutenant thought he should retain some pretense of being in uniform.
Besides, the way things were going, he would lose the pants and have nothing to wear.
They liked the breastplate, but that, too, was out. He offered the old pair of boots he was wearing, but the Indians could see no value in them. Finally the lieutenant produced his rifle, and the players were unanimous in accepting it. Wagering a rifle created a big stir, and the game instantly became a high-stakes affair, drawing many observers.
By now the lieutenant knew what he was doing, and as the game continued, the dice took a liking to him. He hit a hot streak, and when the dust of his run had settled, he not only had held on to the rifle, but was now the new owner of three excellent ponies.
The losers gave up their treasures with such grace and good humor that Dunbar was moved to reply in kind. He immediately made presents of his winnings. The tallest and strongest of the three he gave to Wind In His Hair. Then, with a throng of the curious trailing in his wake, he led the remaining two horses through camp and, on reaching Kicking Bird’s lodge, handed both sets of reins to the medicine man.
Kicking Bird was pleased but bewildered. When someone explained where the horses had come from, he glanced around, caught sight of Stands With A Fist, and called her over, indicating that he wished her to speak for him.
She was a gruesome sight as she stood listening to the medicine man.
The butchering had splattered her arms and face and apron with blood.
She pleaded ignorance, shaking him off with her head, but Kicking Bird persisted, and the little assembly in front of the lodge fell silent, waiting to see if she could perform the English Kicking Bird had asked for.
She stared at her feet and mouthed a word several times. Then she looked at the lieutenant and tried it.
“Tankus,” she said.
The lieutenant’s face twitched.
“What?” he replied, forcing a smile.
“Tank.”
She poked his arm with a finger and swung her arm toward the ponies.
“Hotz.”
“Thank?” the lieutenant guessed. “Thank me?”
Stands With A Fist nodded.
“Yes,” she said clearly.
Lieutenant Dunbar reached out to shake with Kicking Bird, but she stopped him. She wasn’t finished, and holding a finger aloft, she stepped between the ponies.
“Horz,” she said, pointing to the lieutenant with her free hand. She repeated the word and pointed at Kicking Bird.
“One for me?” the lieutenant queried, using the same hand signs.
“And one for him?”
Stands With A Fist sighed happily, and knowing he understood her, she smiled thinly.
“Yes,” she said, and without thinking, another old word, perfectly popped out of her mouth. “Correct.”