Dances With Wolves by Michael Blake
Of course Lieutenant Dunbar had not meant it as a signal to anyone else. He had only wanted to die. But his Union comrades already had their hearts in their throats, and when they saw the lieutenant’s arms fly up, it was more than they could bear.
They streamed over the wall, a spontaneous tide of fighting men, roaring with an abandon that curdled the blood of the Confederate troops.
The men in the beechnut uniforms broke and ran as one, scrambling in a twisted mess toward the stand of trees behind them.
By the time Lieutenant Dunbar pulled Cisco up, the blue-coated Union troops were already over the wall, chasing the terrified rebels into the woods.
His head suddenly lightened.
The world around him went into a spin.
The colonel and his aides were converging from one direction, General Tipton and his people from another. They’d both seen him fall, toppling unconscious from the saddle, and each man quickened his pace as the lieutenant went down. Running to the spot in the empty field where Cisco stood quietly next to the shapeless form lying at his feet, the colonel and General Tipton shared the same feelings, feelings that were rare in high-ranking officers, particularly in wartime.
They each shared a deep and genuine concern for a single individual.
Of the two, General Tipton was the more overwhelmed. In twenty-seven years of soldiering he had witnessed many acts of bravery, but nothing came close to the display he had witnessed that afternoon.
When Dunbar came to, the general was kneeling at his side with the fervency of a father at the side of a fallen son.
And when he found that this brave lieutenant had ridden onto the field already wounded, the general lowered his head as if in prayer and did something he had not done since childhood. Tears tumbled into his graying beard.
Lieutenant Dunbar was not in shape to talk much, but he did manage a single request. He said it several times.
“Don’t take my foot off.”
General Tipton heard and recorded that request as if it were a commandment from God. Lieutenant Dunbar was taken from the field in the general’s own ambulance, carried to the general’s regimental headquarters, and, once there, was placed under the direct supervision of the general’s personal physician.
There was a short scene when they arrived. General Tipton ordered his physician to save the young man’s foot, but after a quick examination, the physician replied that there was a strong possibility he would have to amputate.
General Tipton took the doctor aside then and told him, “If you don’t save that boy’s foot, I will have you cashiered for incompetence. I will have you cashiered if it’s the last thing I do.”
Lieutenant Dunbar’s recovery became an obsession with the general. He made time each day to look in on the young lieutenant and, at the same time, look over the shoulder of the doctor, who never stopped sweating in the two weeks it took to save Lieutenant Dunbar’s foot.
The general said little to the patient in that time. He only expressed fatherly concern. But when the foot was finally out of danger, he ducked into the tent one afternoon, pulled a chair close to the bed, and began to talk dispassionately about something that had formed in his mind.
Dunbar listened dumbfounded as the general laid out his idea. He wanted the war to be over for Lieutenant Dunbar because his actions on the field, actions that the general was still thinking about, were enough for one man in one war.
And he wanted the lieutenant to ask him for something because, and here the general lowered his voice, “We are all in your debt. I am in your debt.”
The lieutenant allowed himself a thin smile and said, “Well . . . I have my foot, sir.”
General Tipton didn’t return the smile.
“What do you want?” he said.
Dunbar closed his eyes and thought.
At last he said, “I have always wanted to be posted on the frontier.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere . . . just on the frontier.”
The general rose from his chair. “All right,” he said, and started out of the tent.
“Sir?”
The general stopped short, and when he looked back at the bed, it was with an affection that was disarming.
“I would like to keep the horse. . . . Can I do that?”
“Of course you can.”
Lieutenant Dunbar had pondered the interview with the general for the rest of the afternoon. He had been excited about the sudden, new prospects for his life. But he had also felt a twinge of guilt when he thought of the affection he had seen in the general’s face. He had not told anyone that he was only trying to commit suicide. But it seemed far too late now. That afternoon he decided he would never tell.
And now, lying in the clammy blankets, Dunbar made up his third smoke in half an hour and mused about the mysterious workings of fate that had finally brought him to Fort Sedgewick.
The room was growing lighter, and so was the lieutenant’s mood. He steered his thoughts away from the past and into the present. With the zeal of a man content with his place, he began to think about today’s phase of the cleanup campaign.
CHAPTER VI
one
Like a youngster who would rather skip the vegetables and get right to the pie, Lieutenant Dunbar passed over the difficult job of shoring up the supply house in favor of the more pleasant possibilities of constructing the awning.
Digging through the provisions, he found a set of field tents that would supply the canvas, but no amount of searching would produce a suitable instrument with which to stitch, and he wished he hadn’t been so quick in burning the carcasses.
He scoured the banks downriver for a good part of the morning before he found a small skeleton that yielded several strong slivers of bone that could be used for sewing.
Back at the supply house he found a thin length of rope that unraveled into the thread size he had imagined. Leather would have been more durable, but in making all his improvements, Lieutenant Dunbar liked the idea of assigning a temporary aspect to the work. Holding down the fort until it came fully to life again with the arrival of fresh troops.
Though careful to avoid expectations, he was sure that, sooner or later, someone would come.
The sewing was brutal. For the remainder of the second day he stitched doggedly at the canvas, making good progress. But by the time he knocked off late that afternoon, his hands were so sore and swollen that he had difficulty preparing his evening coffee.
In the morning his fingers were like stone, far too stiff to work the needle. He was tempted to try anyway, for he was close to finishing. But he didn’t.
Instead, he turned his attention to the corral. After careful study, he cannibalized four of the tallest and sturdiest posts. They had not been sunk deep, and it didn’t take much time to pull them out. Cisco wasn’t going to go anywhere, and the lieutenant toyed briefly with the idea of leaving the corral open. In the end, however, he decided a noncorral would violate the spirit of the cleanup campaign, so he took another hour to rearrange the fencing.
Then he spread the canvas in front of the sleeping hut and sank the posts deep, packing them tight as he could with the heavy soil.
The day had turned warm, and when he was finished with the posts, the lieutenant found himself traipsing into the shade of the sod hut. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back against the wall. His eyes were getting heavy. He lay down on the pallet to rest a moment and promptly fell into a deep, delicious sleep.
two
He woke flushed with the sensuous afterglow of having surrendered completely, in this case to a nap. Stretching out languidly, he dropped his hand over the side of the bed and, like a dreamy child, let his fingertips play lightly over the dirt floor.
He felt wonderful, lying there with nothing to do, and it occurred to him then that, in addition to inventing his own duties, he could also set his own pace. For the time being, anyway. He decided that, in the same way he had surrendered to the nap, he would gi
Shadows were creeping across the hut’s doorway, and curious about how long he had slept, Dunbar slid a hand inside his trousers and pulled out the simple, old pocket watch that had been his father’s. When he brought it to his face he saw that it had stopped. For a moment he considered trying to set an approximate time, but instead he placed the old, worn timepiece on his stomach and lapsed into a meditation.
What did time matter to him now? What did it ever matter? Well, perhaps it was necessary in the movement of things, men and materials, for instance. For cooking things correctly. For schools and weddings and church services and going to work.
But what did it matter out here?
Lieutenant Dunbar rolled himself a smoke and hung the heirloom on a convenient hook a couple of feet above the bed. He stared at the numbers on the watch’s face as he smoked, thinking how much more efficient it would be to work when a person felt like it, to eat when a person was hungry, to sleep when a person was sleepy.
He took a long drag on the cigarette and, throwing his arms contentedly behind his head, blew out a stream of blue smoke.
How good it will be to live without time for a while, he thought.
Suddenly there was the sound of heavy footfalls just outside. They started and stopped and started again. A moving shadow passed over the entrance to the hut and a moment later Cisco’s big head swung through the doorway. His ears were pricked and his eyes were wide with wonder. He looked like a child invading the sanctity of his parents’ bedroom on a Sunday morning.
Lieutenant Dunbar laughed out loud. The buckskin let his ears fall and gave his head a long, casual shake, as if pretending this little embarrassment hadn’t happened. His eyes roamed the room with a detached air. Then he looked pointedly at the lieutenant and stamped his hoof in the way horses do when they want to shake off the flies.
Dunbar knew he wanted something.
A ride probably.
He’d been standing around for two days.
three
Lieutenant Dunbar was not a fancy rider. He’d never been schooled in the subtleties of horsemanship. His frame, deceptively strong despite being slim, had not known organized athletics.
But there was something about horses. He had loved them from boyhood; perhaps that was the reason. But the reason doesn’t really matter. What matters is that something extraordinary happened when Dunbar swung onto the back of a horse, especially if it was a gifted horse like Cisco.
Communication took place between horses and Lieutenant Dunbar. He had the knack of deciphering the language of a horse. And once that was mastered, the sky was the limit. He had mastered Cisco’s dialect almost at once, and there was little they couldn’t do. When they rode it was with the grace of a dance team.
And the purer the better. Dunbar had always preferred a bare back to a saddle, but the army, of course, permitted no such thing. People got hurt, and it was out of the question for long campaigns.
So when the lieutenant stepped inside the shadowy supply house, his hand went automatically to the saddle in the corner.
He checked himself. The only army here was him, and Lieutenant Dunbar knew he would not get hurt.
He reached instead for Cisco’s bridle and left the saddle behind.
They weren’t twenty yards from the corral when he saw the wolf again. It was staring from the spot it had occupied the day before, on the edge of the bluff just across the river.
The wolf had begun to move, but when he saw Cisco come to a halt, he froze, stepped deliberately back into his original position, and resumed staring at the lieutenant.
Dunbar stared back with more interest than he had the day before. It was the same wolf, all right, two white socks on the front paws. He was big and sturdy, but something about him gave Dunbar the impression he was past his prime. His coat was scruffy, and the lieutenant thought he could see a jagged line along the muzzle, most likely an old scar. There was an alertness about him that signified age. He seemed to watch everything without moving a muscle. Wisdom was the word that came to the lieutenant’s mind. Wisdom was the bonus of surviving many years, and the tawny old fellow with the watchful eyes had survived more than his fair share.
Funny he’s come back again, Lieutenant Dunbar thought.
He pushed forward slightly and Cisco stepped ahead. As he did, Dunbar’s eye picked up movement and he glanced across the river.
The wolf was moving, too.
In fact, he was keeping pace. This went on for a hundred yards before the lieutenant asked Cisco to stop again.
The wolf stopped, too.
On impulse, the lieutenant wheeled Cisco a quarter turn and faced across the chasm. Now he was staring straight into the wolf’s eyes, and the lieutenant felt certain he could read something there. Something like longing.
He was beginning to think about what the longing might be when the wolf yawned and moved away. He kicked himself into a trot and disappeared.
four
April 13, 1863
Though well supplied, I have decided to ration my goods. The missing garrison or a replacement should be here anytime. I cannot imagine it will be too much longer now.
In any event, I’m striving to consume stores in the way I would if I were part of the post rather than the whole affair. It will be hard with the coffee, but I shall try my best.
Have begun the awning. If my hands, which are in poor condition just now, should be up to snuff in the morning, I might have it up by tomorrow P.M.
Made a short patrol this P.M. Discovered nothing.
There is a wolf who seems intent on the goings-on here. He does not seem inclined to be a nuisance, however, and aside from my horse, is the only visitor I have had. He has appeared each afternoon for the past two days. If he comes calling tomorrow, I will name him Two Socks. He has milky-white socks on both front paws.
Lt. John J. Dunbar, U.S.A.
CHAPTER VII
one
The next few days went smoothly.
Lieutenant Dunbar’s hands came back and the awning went up. Twenty minutes after he had raised it, when he was relaxing beneath the sprawling shade, bent over a barrel, rolling a smoke, the breeze kicked up and the awning collapsed.
Feeling ridiculous, he pawed his way out from under, studied the failure for a few minutes, and hit on the idea of guy wires as a solution. He used rope for wire, and before the sun went down, Dunbar was back in the shade, with his eyes closed, puffing on another handmade cigarette while he listened to the pleasant sound of canvas flapping gently overhead.
Using a bayonet, he sawed out a wide window in the sod hut and draped a scrap of canvas over it.
He worked long and hard on the supply house, but except for clearing away a large part of the sagging wall, he made little progress. A gaping hole was the final result. The original sod crumbled each time he tried to build it up, so Lieutenant Dunbar covered the hole with yet another sheet of canvas and washed his hands of the rest. From the start the supply house had been a losing business.
Lying on his bunk in the late afternoons, Dunbar returned over and over to the problem of the supply house, but as the days passed, he thought of it less. The weather had been beautiful, with none of the violence of spring. The temperatures couldn’t be more perfect, the air was feathery and the breeze, which made the canvas window curtain billow above his head on these late afternoons, was sweet.
The day’s little problems seemed easier to solve as time went by, and when his work was finished the lieutenant would lie back on the bunk with his cigarette and marvel at the peace he felt. Invariably his eyes would grow heavy, and he fell into the habit of napping for half an hour before supper.
Two Socks became a habit, too. He appeared at his customary spot on the bluff each afternoon, and after two or three days, Lieutenant Dunbar began to take his silent visitor’s comings and goings for granted. Occasionally he would notice th
One evening, while Two Socks was watching, he laid a fist-sized chunk of bacon rind on his own side of the river. The morning after, there was no trace of the bacon, and though he had no proof, Dunbar felt certain that Two Socks had taken it.
two
Lieutenant Dunbar missed some things. He missed the company of people. He missed the pleasure of a stiff drink. Most of all, he missed women, or rather a woman. Sex hardly entered his mind. But sharing did. The more settled he became in the free and easy pattern of life at Fort Sedgewick, the more he wanted to share it with someone, and when the lieutenant thought of this missing element, he would drop his chin and stare morosely at nothing.
Fortunately, these lapses of spirit passed away quickly. What he might have lacked was pale in light of what he had. His mind was free. There was no work and there was no play. Everything was one. It didn’t matter whether he was hauling water up from the stream or tying into a hearty dinner. Everything was the same, and he found it not at all boring. He thought of himself as a single current in a deep river. He was separate and he was whole, all at the same time. It was a wonderful feeling.
He loved the daily reconnaissance rides on Cisco’s bare back. Each day they rode out in a different direction, sometimes as far as five or six miles from the fort. He saw no buffalo and no Indians. But this disappointment was not great. The prairie was glorious, ablaze with wildflowers and overrun with game. The buffalo grass was the best, alive as an ocean, waving in the wind for as far as his eyes could see. It was a sight he knew he would never grow tired of.
On the afternoon before the day Lieutenant Dunbar did his laundry, he and Cisco had ridden less than a mile from the post when, by chance, he looked over his shoulder and there was Two Socks, coming along in his easy trot a couple of hundred yards back.