Dances With Wolves was riding out of camp on the little buckskin horse. It was a sight that made her heart sink a little further than she might have imagined. The thought of him going did not disturb her so much, but the thought of him not coming back deflated her to the extent that it showed on her face.
Stands With A Fist blushed to think that someone might see her like this. She glanced around quickly and turned a brighter shade of red.
Kicking Bird was watching her.
Her heart beat wildly as she struggled to compose herself. The medicine man was coming over.
“There will be no talk today,” he said, studying her with a care that made her insides squirm.
“I see,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral.
But she could see curiosity in his eyes, curiosity that called for an explanation.
“I like to make the talk,” she went on. “I am happy to make the white words.”
“He wants to see the white man’s fort. He will come back at sundown.”
The medicine man gave her another close look and said. “We will make more talk tomorrow.”
Her day passed minute by minute.
She watched the sun like a bored office worker watches each tick of the clock. Nothing moves slower than watched time. She had great difficulty concentrating on her duties because of this.
When she wasn’t watching time she was daydreaming.
Now that he had emerged as a real person, there were things in him she found to admire. Some of them might be traced to their mutual whiteness. Some of them were his alone. All of them held her interest.
She felt a mysterious pride when she thought of the deeds he had performed, deeds that were known by all her people.
Remembering his playacting made her laugh. Sometimes he was very funny. Funny but not foolish. In every way he seemed sincere and open and respectful and full of good humor. She was convinced that these qualities were genuine.
The sight of him with the breastplate on had seemed out of place at first, like a Comanche would be out of place in a top hat. But he wore it day after day without paying the least attention to it. And he never took it off. It was obvious that he loved it.
His hair was tangled like hers, not thick and straight like the others. And he hadn’t tried to change it.
He hadn’t changed the boots and pants either but wore them in the same natural way he took to the breastplate.
These musings led her to the conclusion that Dances With Wolves was an honest person. Every human being finds certain characteristics above all others to cherish, and for Stands With A Fist it was honesty.
This thinking about Dances With Wolves did not subside, and as the afternoon wore on, bolder thoughts came to her. She pictured him coming back at sundown. She pictured them together in the arbor the following day.
One more image came to her as she knelt by the edge of the river in the late afternoon, filling a jug with water. They were together in the arbor. He was talking about himself and she was listening. But it was only the two of them.
Kicking Bird was gone.
Her daydream became real on the very next day.
The three of them had just gotten down to talking when word was brought that a faction of young warriors had declared their intention to make a war party against the Pawnee. Because there had been no previous talk about this and because the young men in question were inexperienced, Ten Bears had hastily organized a council.
Kicking Bird was called away and suddenly they were alone.
The silence in the arbor was so heavy that it made both of them nervous. Each wanted to talk, but considerations of what to say and how to say it held them up. They were speechless.
Stands With A Fist finally decided on her opening words, but she was too late.
He was already turning to her, saying the words in a shy but forceful way.
“I want to know about you,” he said.
She turned away, trying to think. The English was still hard for her. Fractured by the effort of thought, it came out in clear but half-stuttered words.
“Whaa . . . what you know . . . want to know?” she asked.
For the rest of the morning she told him about herself, holding the lieutenant’s eager attention with the stories of her time as a white girl, her capture, and her long life as a Comanche.
When she tried to end a story he would ask another question. Much as she might have wanted, she could not get off the subject of herself. He asked how she came to be named, and she told the story of her arrival in camp so many years ago. Memories of her first months were hazy, but she well remembered the day she got her name.
She had not been officially adopted by anyone, nor had she been made a member of the band. She was only working. As she carried out her assignments successfully the work became less menial and she was given more instruction in the various ways of living off the prairie. But the longer she worked, the more resentful she became of her lowly status. And some of the women picked on her unmercifully.
Outside a lodge one morning she took a swing at the worst of these women. Being young and unskilled, she had no hope of winning a fight. But the punch she threw was hard and perfectly timed. It cracked against the point of the woman’s chin and knocked her cold. She kicked her unconscious tormentor for good measure and stood facing the other women with her fists balled, a tiny white girl ready to take on all comers.
No one challenged her. They only watched. In moments everyone had returned to what they were doing, leaving the mean woman lying where she had dropped.
No one picked on the little white girl after that. The family that had been taking care of her became open with their kindnesses, and the road to becoming a Comanche was smoothed for her. She was Stands With A Fist from then on.
A special kind of warmth filled the arbor as she told the story. Lieutenant Dunbar wanted to know the exact spot where her fist struck the woman’s chin, and Stands With A Fist unhesitatingly grazed his jaw with her knuckles.
The lieutenant stared at her after this was done.
His eyes slowly rolled under his lids and he keeled over.
It was a good joke and she extended it, bringing him to by gently jiggling his arm.
This little exchange produced a new ease between them, but good as it was, the sudden familiarity also caused Stands With A Fist some worry. She didn’t want him to ask her personal questions, questions about her status as a woman. She could feel the questions coming, and the specter of this broke her concentration. It made her nervous and less communicative.
The lieutenant sensed her pulling back. It made him nervous and less communicative as well.
Before they knew it, silence had fallen between them once again.
The lieutenant said it anyway. He didn’t know precisely why, but it was something he had to ask. If he let it pass now, he might never ask. So he did.
Casually as he could, he stretched out a leg and yawned.
“Are you married?” he asked.
Stands With A Fist dropped her head and fixed her eyes on her lap. She shook her head in a short, uncomfortable way and said, “No.”
The lieutenant was on the verge of asking why when he noticed that her head was falling slowly into her hands. He waited a moment, wondering if something was wrong.
She was perfectly still.
Just as he was about to speak again she suddenly clambered to her feet and left the arbor.
She was gone before Dunbar could call after her. Devastated, he sat numbly in the arbor, damning himself for having asked the question and hoping against hope that whatever had gone wrong could be put right again. But there was nothing he could do on that account. He couldn’t ask Kicking Bird’s advice. He couldn’t even talk to Kicking Bird.