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 tribes knew a few words of each other's tongues, and both counted Spanish-speakers among their ranks, but neither was adept enough to make meaningful talk so they naturally resorted to a language whose fluency was shared by alclass="underline" the language conducted as music by fingers, hands, and arms, the artful language of signs.
There was only one soul lurking outside the meeting place that night, and he had not come out of curiosity. Loitering close by, he had happened to see the Cheyenne delegation arrive at the lodge and drifted closer with the idea that spying on the gathering might provide a respite from his misery. He had already attended several feasts but had been unable to appear at the one hosted by the father of Hunting For Something. He would have walked through fire to see her face and it would have been simple to stop by and pay his respects to the Horned Antelope family. But courage had failed him. If he had showed his face, no mask, however thick could have hidden the hopeless ardor in his bleeding heart.
As Smiles A Lot moped about, hoping to pick up any sound from inside that might distract his despair, he noticed a sliver of light. There was a tiny rent in one of the lodge's seams, and as he placed one eye against it, the lovesick young man found that it afforded a complete view of the principal men seated around the fire.
He was in time to see Ten Bears offer his visitors still more food.
"If there is room in your bellies," the old man signed, "you are welcome to more."
"No," Wolf Robe countered amiably, "your generosity has made every Cheyenne belly hearty. Some of our people can barely walk."
Smiles flashed through the lodge and the two headmen chatted easily for a few moments about the prospects for a successful round of trading with the Mexicans. The assembled warriors listened passively to the preliminaries, knowing full well that the meat of the discussion was yet to come, and when Ten Bears made a casual inquiry about the quality of hunting in Cheyenne country it opened the gates to a flood of alarming news.
Wolf Robe had remained cross-legged throughout the small talk but now he rose to give everyone a full view of all he had to say.
"Our brother the buffalo has given us all we need. The grass is good and the buffalo are plenty but they are acting strangely. They gather less and less in great herds. They are acting like ants scattered from their nest. They act lost."
"Why is this?" Ten Bears asked.
Wolf Robe paused as if pained. Then he signed curtly.
"The whites are overrunning our country."
Silence pervaded the lodge and Wolf Robe listened to it for a few moments before continuing.
"They are popping out of the ground like grass after rain. There is nothing but trouble everywhere we look. That's why we are here now. We are hoping some of these troubles will have passed by the time we get back."
The Comanche looked at one another for enlightenment but each face showed only puzzlement.
"Tell us about these troubles," Ten Bears asked.
"White hunters are camping everywhere. They come in small groups but they have far-shooting guns that can kill as many buffalo in an hour as we can take in a week."
"Are you killing these men?" Ten Bears asked.
"We kill as many as we can. It is not easy to ride against the far-shooting guns. A party from my wife's brother's band killed six in one raid but it turned out bad. The white men were infected with the spotted sickness and the warriors carried it back to the village. It killed many. My brother-in-law is dead from it. Our band has killed a few of these hair-mouthed hunters but every time we do they send soldiers out to chase us. . in our own country! There are two soldier forts, in the east, on the edge of our country. We learned before we left that they are making another one."
Ten Bears' brows pinched together. "Why are they doing this?"
"They want our land," Wolf Robe replied. "They're on it now, all along the Vermillion River off to the east. They make square houses of mud to live in."