Two weeks following their having left the nomadic band of family and friends, a yearning to return to the tribe hounded poor Stands With A Fist. The way she felt troubled her husband, Dances With Wolves. Made him feel so bad, and worried him. His wife was expecting, and it really got to him. The decision he'd made that now affected her so adversely. It was terrible seeing his wife pine for the only people she had ever known. Kicking Bird was like her father, Black Shawl her mother. And what had he done? He'd torn her away from them, for safety's sake. The soldiers would be sure to come after the tribe if she and he remained with them. He'd ripped her from the fabric of what had made her life worth living. If what he'd done was the right thing, why did he feel he'd made the wrong call now?
He'd angered Wind In His Hair, now his blood brother. Staying with the people was wiser, according to the hot-headed brave. Dances With Wolves believed soldiers would always be after him. But, how could he know that for sure? None of the soldiers were as smart as the Sioux and the ex-soldier, who'd joined them.
Outside the ramshackle shack, which perhaps had once been inviting lodging, set deep in the woods of the sylvan Colorado range, the wind blew, a powerful, mournful sound. The sound combined with the forlorn neighs and whinnies of their uneasy horses. Fire in the fireplace crackled as it burned, devouring the woodpile. Dances With Wolves studied the shadows playing on Stands With A Fist's careworn face. Her hair was longer, more wild in appearance, it appeared to him. He wondered if a comb had ever touched her scalp. If he got her a comb, he wondered if she'd use it. He loved finger-combing her unruly strands; the action never failed to relax her. He thought he would offer, seeing her sprawled across the rickety, wood-frame bed with its lumpy mattress that sagged in the middle. The old sheet they'd come across didn't fit it properly. They'd made do. They weren't staying here for the rest of their lives. This pause in their travel was only temporary. Their life had become a never-ending succession of stopovers, always on the move. Hoping to keep a step ahead of the U.S. Calvary.
So far, so good. This deserter was doing all he could to avoid winding up in another filthy, fly-infested stockade, cramped and flyblown. And he knew what came next after being held in that cell. They'd hang him, as promised.
Shortening her name, he said, "Stands, can I?" He stretched out his hands to her, wriggling his fingers, canting his head at hers.
Having come to know what her husband meant, she replied, "If you wish." She would welcome his ministrations, as usual. Imagining his hands settling on her head, she shuddered.
"I wish," he quickly rejoined, joining her on the bed, being careful not to jostle her too much. As his fingers went to work, kneading her pate, he spoke slowly, wanting her to get the full import of his words. "I've been thinking..."
Dances With Wolves is thinking, Stands With A Fist thought with a wry, wistful smile playing on her lips. "You think much. About many things. About things I will never understand."
When she said things like that, it bothered him. Caused him to suspect that she didn't think much of herself. Upset, he contradicted, "You understand more than I ever will. Trust me."
"I do," Stands With A Fist tossed at him, seeing the look festering in his eyes. When his eyes searched hers the way they were, she couldn't help but waver. "I trust you with our lives." She rubbed her swollen belly. Her husband's hand found hers and they massaged her stomach together. "What are you thinking, my husband?"
Half-halting, mumbling at first, then speaking forcefully outright, he poured what was in his heart into his speech. "About you and your happiness. I only want to make you happy, Stands. I hope you know that. Hope you'll always know that. But, what I did...this. Taking you away from our people...I've been thinking that I made a mistake." He felt her stiffen beneath his touch, as though starch had displaced animation. Her head began vibrating between his hands. Not knowing quite what to make of her wordless reaction, he deemed he should continue making his case. "We could find them. Go back. Make a life for ourselves with the people." His lower lip quivered, seeing hers doing so. "The life we're meant to live. I made a mistake-"
"You?" Stands uttered, utterly surprised. "I think when you made the decision, you thought it was a good one."
"Hasty. I rushed, making the decision." His arms around her, he hugged her tightly, as much as she could endure without crying out that he was crushing her. "On second thought, it was a rash decision. I should have listened to Kicking Bird, who told me we would all be safe. The soldiers have Cheyenne scouts working for them, but it doesn't make any difference. Ten Bears is the wisest chief, knowing full well how to throw trackers off. Along with members of his council, they are very smart men. So wise, like our chief. Ten Bears and Kicking Bird assured me if we stayed, no harm would come to any of us." Dances With Wolves sighed mightily. "I didn't think so at the time, but now I do. Stands, when we go back, we will be safe. I want us to return to our family."
Stands With A Fist, about to comment, was interrupted by intense pounding on the little shack's flimsy front door. For a moment, husband and wife froze, both conjecturing that whoever was at their door like that meant them no good. As the pounding persisted, their apprehension grew. Dances With Wolves eased himself off the bed, and indicated that Stands With A Fist hide under it. She resisted at first, but his insistence moved her.
Standing at the door, he checked to see that she was out of sight, then he rasped, his voice harsh, brutal, "What do you want?" The indistinct, fractured muttering that went on, on the other side of the door struck a chord with Dances With Wolves. "Wind In His Hair?" he exclaimed, shocked. He threw open the door to behold his blood brother, in the flesh, standing there, looking the picture of perplexed. "How in the world?" His voice trailing, he lunged at the hunky, handsome warrior and yanked him inside as if the strapping man had been a sniveling lightweight. Clenching him in a bear hug, he shouted, "What are you doing here?"
Still all kinds of shaky with the English language, in spite of Dances With Wolves patiently teaching him, Wind In His Hair vacillated. Then, he said haltingly, "Come find you. Trail fresh. Find you. Not hard." Looking the place over, Wind In His Hair demanded, "Where is..." He said her name in the Sioux language.
Now quite efficient with the native tongue, Dances With Wolves supplied in the same manner, "Under the bed. We thought you were trouble."
Stands With A Fist popped her head out from under her cozy place of concealment, and greeted Wind In His Hair in Sioux, then asked, "What brings you here?" She figured her husband's question was worth repeating. Seeing her deceased husband's best friend had a tranquilizing effect on her, drawing her from the conventional hiding place. What it must have taken for him to find them. Then she remembered, Wind In His Hair was as stubborn as any man came.
This proud man, whose hair was the envy of many Sioux women glared at his blood brother and his wife. Wind In His Hair's impassioned tirade filled the compact dwelling. He spoke like a man whose words were his only link with reality. "Kicking Bird was badly hurt. He might die. He begged that somehow, he might look upon his adopted daughter once more before he is no more. I, alone, set out to find you. Bring you to him. His last request."
"How? How was he so badly hurt?" Seeing how fiercely Wind In His Hair clutched his war club, the skull-crusher, his prized weapon that he customarily carried, Dances With Wolves knew how worried the seasoned warrior was.
"He was attacked...by a puma," Wind In His Hair stammered.
"An igmuthanka," Dances With Wolves said, repeating the word slowly in Sioux, a new word for him. As Stands With A Fist gasped, bitterly shaken, her husband pulled her against his body and hung on tight.
Stunned by the heart-wrenching news, the newlyweds, gradually drew back from each other and eyed each other, then Wind In His Hair. He'd begun pacing, antsy. The brave loved Kicking Bird every bit as much as he'd loved his own father, who had died several years ago. With no further words spoken, the agitated couple set about getting what little they'd brought with them in order. Wind In His Hair pitched in too to speed the evacuation along. If Kicking Bird did not have too long to live, getting back to him in time was of the essence.