Wind In His Hair and Stone Calf had a good day. They joked a lot about Dances With Wolves, especially the funny expressions on his face, as they walked through the village making deals for horses.
Weddings were normally quiet occasions, but the uniqueness of the bride and groom, uniting so close to the great victory over the Pawnee, had everyone bubbling over with goodwill and anticipation.
The people were eager to participate in the novelty of taking up a collection for Dances With Wolves. In fact, the whole village wanted to be part of it.
Those with plenty of horses were happy to make a contribution. Even the poorer families wanted to give up animals they could not afford. It was hard to turn these people down, but they did.
As part of a prearranged plan, contributors from all over camp began bringing horses at twilight, and by the time the evening star had appeared, more than twenty good ponies were standing in front of Dances With Wolves’s lodge.
With Stone Calf and Wind In His Hair acting as tutors, the groom-to-be took the string of ponies to Kicking Bird’s lodge and tied them outside.
The outpouring from his fellow villagers was deeply flattering. But wanting to give something dear of his own, he unstrapped the big Navy revolver and left it outside the door.
Then he returned to his own home, sent his tutors on their way, and passed a fitful night of waiting.
At dawn, he slipped outside for a look at Kicking Bird’s lodge. Wind In His Hair had said that if the proposal had been accepted, the horses would be gone. If not, they would still be standing outside the lodge.
The horses were gone.
For the next hour, he made himself presentable. He shaved carefully, polished his boots, cleaned the breastplate, and oiled his hair.
He had just finished these preparations when he heard Kicking Bird’s voice call from outside.
“Dances With Wolves.”
Wishing he were not quite so alone, the groom bent through the doorway of his home and stepped out.
Kicking Bird was waiting there, looking extraordinarily handsome in his finery. A few paces behind him was Stands With A Fist. Behind them the whole village had assembled and was watching solemnly.
He exchanged formal greetings with the medicine man and listened attentively as Kicking Bird launched into a speech about what was expected of a Comanche husband.
Dances With Wolves could not take his eyes off the tiny figure of his bride. She stood unmoving, her head bowed slightly. She was wearing the good doeskin dress with the elk teeth on the bodice. The special moccasins were on her feet again, and around her neck was the little pipe-bone choker.
Once, as Kicking Bird spoke, she looked up, and when he saw the whole of her striking face, Dances With Wolves was reassured. He would never tire of looking at her.
It seemed that Kicking Bird would never stop talking, but at last he did.
“Have you heard all that I have said?” questioned the medicine man.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Kicking Bird mumbled. He turned to Stands With A Fist and called her forward.
She came with her head still bowed, and Kicking Bird took her hand. He passed it to Dances With Wolves and told him to take her inside.
The marriage was made as they passed through the doorway. After it was done the villagers broke up quietly and drifted back to their homes.
All afternoon, the people of Ten Bears’s camp came in little groups to lay presents on the newlyweds’ doorstep, staying only long enough to drop off the gifts. By sunset, an impressive array of offerings was piled outside the lodge.
It was like a white man’s Christmas.
For the time being, this beautiful community gesture went unnoticed by the new couple. On the day of their wedding, they saw neither people nor their offerings. On the day of their wedding, they stayed home. And the lodge flap stayed closed.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Two days after the wedding, a high council was held. The recent heavy rains, coming late in the season, had renewed the withering grass, and it was decided to delay the winter move in favor of the pony herd. By staying a little longer, the horses would be able to put on a few extra pounds, which might prove crucial in getting through the winter. The band would dally another two weeks in their summer camp.
No one was more pleased with this development than Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist. They were floating carelessly through the first days of their marriage and didn’t want that special rhythm interrupted. Leaving the bed was hard enough. Packing up and marching hundreds of miles in a long, noisy column was, at the moment, unthinkable.
They had decided to try to make her pregnant, and people passing by rarely saw the lodge flap open.
When Dances With Wolves did emerge, he was relentlessly ribbed by his peers. Wind In His Hair was particularly merciless in this teasing. If Dances With Wolves dropped by for a smoke, he would invariably be greeted with some salutation inquiring about the health of his manhood or with mock shock at seeing him out of bed. Wind In His Hair even tried to saddle him with the nickname One Bee, an allusion to his never-ending pollination of a single flower, but fortunately for the new husband, the name didn’t stick.
Dances With Wolves let the kidding slide off his back. Having the woman he wanted made him feel invincible, and nothing could harm him.
What there was of life outside the lodge was deeply satisfying. He went hunting every day, almost always with Wind In His Hair and Stone Calf. The three had become great pals, and it was rare to see one going out without the others.
The talks with Kicking Bird continued. They were fluent now and the subjects unlimited. Dances With Wolves’s appetite for learning far exceeded that of Kicking Bird’s, and the medicine man discoursed widely on everything from tribal history to herbal healing. He was greatly encouraged by the keen interest his pupil showed for spiritualism, and indulged that appetite gladly.
The Comanche religion was simple, based as it was on the natural environment of the animals and elements that surrounded them. The practice of the religion was complex, however. It was rife with ritual and taboo, and covering this subject alone kept the men busy.
His new life was richer than ever, and it showed in the way Dances With Wolves carried himself. Without dramatics he was losing his naïveté but not surrendering his charm. He was becoming more manly without abandoning his spark, and he was settling smoothly into his role as a cog without losing the stamp of his distinct personality.
Kicking Bird, always attuned to the soul of things, was immensely proud of his protege, and one evening, at the end of an after-dinner stroll, he placed a hand on Dances With Wolves’s shoulder and said:
“There are many trails in this life, but the one that matters most, few men are able to walk . . . even Comanche men. It is the trail of a true human being. I think you are on this trail. It is a good thing for me to see. It is good for my heart.”
Dances With Wolves memorized these words as they were said and treasured them always. But he told no one, not even Stands With A Fist. He made them part of his private medicine.
They were only a few days away from the big move when Kicking Bird came by one morning and said he was going to take a ride to a special place. The round trip would take all day and perhaps part of the night, but if Dances With Wolves wanted to go, he would be welcome.
They cut through the heart of the prairie, riding in a southeasterly direction for several hours. The enormity of the space they’d invaded was humbling, and neither man did much talking.