In the meantime, scouting parties would have to be sent out to keep an eye on the hair-mouth soldiers while the village went about the work of trying to make enough meat to see it through winter. Food was paramount, especially with the buffalo so scarce. Men could not fight long on empty bellies, and if children began to cry for food, all ears would be cocked in their direction.
The clouds were hanging close to the ground and rain was falling steadily when Wind In His Hair reentered the village. The wet and cold had driven the dispirited Comanches inside their lodges. He guided his pony to the center of the lifeless village and sat on his horse for a minute or two. He could hear no talk or laughter, not even the whine of a youngster and, hearing only the dismal cascade from above, it occurred to Wind In His Hair that the sooner the village shook off its lethargy, the better would be its chances for survival.
Within half an hour every warrior in the village was firing into his lodge, and when Wind In His Hair rose to speak, every face looked to him, yearning for guidance.
"Hear me now, Brothers,” he exhorted quietly. “We must turn ourselves inside out from this moment. Every warrior's heart must be brought out. We must cover our skins with bravery because from this moment we live only to defend our country.
"Myself and three others are all that is left of the Hard Shields. But I will not pick from among you to replace warriors who have been destroyed. From now on, all of you, and all who join us, will fight as Hard Shields."
Wind In His Hair had just told his listeners of the plan to move the village north and west, in search of meat, when the lodge flaps flew open and the rain-soaked heads of several women appeared. Each had a look of horror on her face and each was shrieking the same thing at once.
"White people! White people outside camp!"
Half-trampling each other, warriors spilled out of the lodge and scrambled over the muddy ground for their horses. As was his habit, Wind In His Hair had his pony tied immediately outside and he was one of the first to get mounted. The one-eyed warrior did not wait for a force to form behind him but galloped out of the village with a handful of others in the direction indicated by the frightened women.
The rain was driving across the grasslands in thick, waving sheets and it was hard to see anything. But a half mile out of camp, Wind In His Hair glimpsed the first ghostly outlines of four people on horseback.
He kicked his pony harder and the silhouettes ahead were just beginning to take shape when Wind In His Hair jerked at his pony's mouth and sat back. The horse's hind hooves planted in the watery earth and skidded to a stop. The warriors behind him halted too, peering intently through the rain at the figures a hundred yards ahead, reconfirming had caused Wind In His Hair to pull up.
The people weren't running away and they weren't coming forward. They were standing perfectly still and, for a moment, Wind In His Hair considered the alarming idea that they might be ghosts. The outlines ahead were shimmering through the rain in vaporous waves.
Overcoming the fear sparking at the base of his neck, he nudged his pony forward, and as he drew closer, Wind In His Hair discarded the idea of ghosts. The people were wearing white man clothes, and in the shrinking distance Wind In His Hair was momentarily caught up, trying to discern a few details of their appearance.
But when he swung his gaze again to the foremost of the riders the one who seemed to be a man, the features of his face suddenly came together. Peering out from under the dripping brim of the white man hat were a pair of unmistakable eyes.
It was Dances With Wolves.
Chapter XLIII
The return of those who had been given up for dead was universally accepted as a good — and long-overdue — omen.
But the giddy first reaction was quickly replaced by doubts and speculations. What would Dances With Wolves, decision be? Could he possibly go in? How could he stay? When the white soldiers chased them, as they were sure to do, what would he do? His dilemma seemed intractable, and a few people came to the conclusion that he should leave.
Stands With A Fist was more withdrawn than people remembered, and even after the trauma of her captivity was taken into account, there were some who wondered at the integrity of her Comanche spirit.
The most jittery people in the village, people who worried constantly over their lives and bellies, looked at the Dances With Wolves children and saw the burden of three more mouths.
Stays Quiet had come home with a deep cough and a high fever but Owl Prophet, who had great skills in the application of medicine, quickly cured her. Yet there were still those who thought that it was a bad idea to have let anyone with a white man disease into the village.
Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist — and to a lesser degree, the children — could not help but sense the subtle shifts in attitude. He had felt it from the moment the village saw him in white man clothes. People had regarded him with a tangle of astonishment and confusion, and for a few minutes it was hard for them to believe he was speaking Comanche.
There were still traces of doubt and hostility when he counciled with Wind In His Hair and a dozen others the night he came back. He gave a brief review of his journey, and even though the men laughed heartily over humorous highlights of his adventure, a few left the distinct impression that they were uncomfortable to have him sitting among them.
Wind In His Hair told of the white ultimatum and Kicking Bird's departure with half the village, and even after he responded unflinchingly with the simple declaration that he was a Hard Shield, Dances With Wolves was certain that some who had seen him in the white man clothes were having a hard time seeing him any other way. Ironically, the only man he was certain regarded him as a brother was Wind In His Hair.
To the dismay of many friends, Stands With A Fist was close-mouthed about her abduction and captivity at the hands of the whites, responding to the gentlest inquiries intractably.
"I don't want to talk about it," she would say. "I'm home."
She, too, had worn the white clothes and it was clear that some were having trouble letting that image pass. At first she was unsettled but, like her husband, Stands With A Fist had never felt complete acceptance and quickly realized that things were the same as they had always been. One realization led to another, and a few days after their arrival a peace she had never experienced before overtook her. She was too Comanche to be white and too white to be Comanche, and there was nothing to be done about it. It was useless to fight or fear what she could not control.
They were going to stay out because they had no choice and, once they had discussed it, she and Dances With Wolves felt a renewal of their reliance on each other and their children. Whatever awaited them they would leave to fate. They shared their feelings on the shifting attitudes of fellow tribesmen and found they shared a mutual conclusion. They didn't care much what anyone thought. Living the Comanche way suited them.
Naturally, they were concerned about their children. The ranks of friends and playmates had thinned, but neither Snake In Hands nor Always Walking seemed to mind. The mobilization of the village affected them little and, though their parents dreaded the possibility of leading them into pain or misery Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist agreed that the family was better off together than apart. They would do all they could to keep the young ones from harm, but they had no illusions. Death always had a place on the prairie, at all times.