Dances With Wolves

Dances With Wolves

Michael Blake

First E-Book Edition

E-book edition in honor of the 20th Anniversary of the

Academy Award-winning film with new author’s preface.

Michael Blake

ZOVA BOOKS

LOS ANGELES

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

First ZOVA Books e-book edition 2011.

DANCES WITH WOLVES. Copyright © 1988 Michael Blake All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information or permission contact: ZOVA Books

P.O. Box 21833, Long Beach, California 90801

www.zovabooks.com

E-BOOK ISBN 9780982788097

Cover design © Daniel Pearson

After several years of writing screenplays in Los Angeles, a final downturn sent me away from doing anymore. The president of a high-level film company threw out a project his most famous and powerful producer was set to direct. I had re-written a screenplay that all the people involved in filming had become thrilled to make. But when the company president read the story I had written, he declared it “too intelligent” and the film was killed.

Feeling nothing I had attempted could be achieved, I read a famous book for relief . . .
Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee
by Dee Brown. Finishing it changed my feeling of what to do with my life. All I could think of was learning about Indians, and for several months I went to every decent bookstore in Los Angeles where Indian stories simply jumped into my hands from the shelves . . . forcing me to take them home and do nothing but read.

After more than a hundred books were absorbed, a story started to filter out of the reader’s heart and soul. What was entering my mind was shared with close friends—and one who would achieve long-term fame as an actor and director turned me in a new direction . . . Kevin Costner.

While still unable to think of anything but Indian life I made a visit to have dinner with Kevin and his wife at their small home. Wine was drunk and spaghetti was eaten in the living room while the three of us shared our current lives. After the meal was finished I couldn’t resist telling the beginning of a story that had begun to come into my mind.

Kevin listened intently, but when I finished and said that it might be a great movie, his face turned suddenly sour. He looked at the wall across the room and pointed at a stack of screenplays he had been sent.

“Don’t write another screenplay,” he insisted. “If you write another screenplay it will end up in there.”

Before I could even make a reply, Kevin stared across the room again and pointed at a tiny paperback novel that was lying alone on the floor next to the pile of screenplays.

“Write a book!” he shouted.

From that moment on he never stopped, and when at last I said goodbye and started out to jump on my motorcycle he followed me to the door, turned me around and grabbed my shirt with his hands.

“Write a book!” he commanded, his eyes glued on mine. “Write a book!”

“Okay . . . okay,” I giggled. “I’ve never written one . . . but I’ll give it some thought.”

When I was on the seat and starting up he was still at the front door. He waved goodbye, then placed his hands on each side of his mouth and called out once more . . . “WRITE A BOOK!”

After almost a year the last words of my first hand-written novel filled out the manuscript, and despite the first publisher’s insistence that the title be changed it managed to stay . . .
Dances With Wolves
.

Michael Blake

January 11, 2011

one

Lieutenant Dunbar wasn’t really swallowed. But that was the first word that stuck in his head.

Everything was immense. The great, cloudless sky. The rolling ocean of grass. Nothing else, no matter where he put his eyes. No road. No trace of ruts for the big wagon to follow. Just sheer, empty space.

He was adrift. It made his heart jump in a strange and profound way.

As he sat on the flat, open seat, letting his body roll along with the prairie, Lieutenant Dunbar’s thoughts focused on his jumping heart. He was thrilled. And yet, his blood wasn’t racing. His body was quiet. The confusion of this kept his mind working in a delightful way. Words turned constantly in his head as he tried to conjure sentences or phrases that would describe what he felt. It was hard to pinpoint.

On their third day out the voice in his head spoke the words “This is religious,” and that sentence seemed the rightest yet. But Lieutenant Dunbar had never been a religious man, so even though the sentence seemed right, he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

If he hadn’t been so carried away, Lieutenant Dunbar probably would have come up with the explanation, but in his reverie, he jumped right over it.

Lieutenant Dunbar had fallen in love. He had fallen in love with this wild, beautiful country and everything it contained. It was the kind of love people dream of having with other people: selfless and free of doubt, reverent and everlasting. His spirit had received a promotion and his heart was jumping. Perhaps this was why the sharply handsome cavalry lieutenant had thought of religion.

From the corner of his eye he saw Timmons duck his head to one side and spit for the thousandth time into the waist-high buffalo grass. As it so often did, the spittle came out in an uneven stream that caused the wagon driver to swipe at his mouth. Dunbar didn’t say anything, but Timmons’s incessant spitting made him recoil inwardly.

It was a harmless act, but it irritated him nonetheless, like forever having to watch someone pick his nose.

They’d been sitting side by side all morning. But only because the wind was right. Though they were but a couple of feet apart, the stiff, little breeze was right, and Lieutenant Dunbar could not smell Timmons. In his less than thirty years he’d smelled plenty of death, and nothing was so bad as that. But death was always being hauled off or buried or sidestepped, and none of these things could be done with Timmons. When the air currents shifted, the stench of him covered Lieutenant Dunbar like a foul, unseen cloud.

So when the breeze was wrong, the lieutenant would slide off the seat and climb onto the mountain of provisions piled in the wagon’s bed. Sometimes he would ride up there for hours. Sometimes he would jump down into the tall grass, untie Cisco, and scout ahead a mile or two.

He looked back at Cisco now, plodding along behind the wagon, his nose buried contentedly in his feed bag, his buckskin coat gleaming in the sunshine. Dunbar smiled at the sight of his horse and wished briefly that horses could live as long as men. With luck, Cisco would be around for ten or twelve more years. Other horses would follow, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime animal. There would be no replacing him once he was gone. As Lieutenant Dunbar watched, the smallish buckskin suddenly lifted his amber eyes over the lip of his feed bag as if to see where the lieutenant was and, satisfied with a glance, went back to nibbling at his grain.

Dunbar squared himself on the seat and slid a hand inside his tunic, drawing out a folded piece of paper. He was worried about this sheet of army paper because his orders were written down here. He had run his dark, pupilless eyes across this paper half a dozen times since he left Fort Hays, but no amount of study could make him feel any better. His name was misspelled twice. The liquor-breathed major who had signed the paper had clumsily dragged a sleeve over the ink before it dried, and the official signature was badly smeared. The order had not been dated, so Lieutenant Dunbar had written it in himself once they were on the trail. But he had written with a pencil, and the lead clashed with the major’s pen scratchings and the standard printing on the form.

Lieutenant Dunbar sighed at the official paper. It didn’t look like an army order. It looked like trash.

Looking at the order reminded him of how it came to be, and that troubled him even more. That weird interview with the liquor-breathed major.

In his eagerness to be posted he’d gone straight from the train depot to headquarters. The major was the first and only person he’d spoken to between the time he’d arrived and the time later that afternoon when he’d clambered up on the wagon to take his seat next to the stinking Timmons. The major’s bloodshot eyes had held him for a long time. When he finally spoke, the tone was baldly sarcastic.

“Indian fighter, huh?”

Lieutenant Dunbar had never seen an Indian, much less fought one.

“Well, not at this moment, sir. I suppose I could be. I can fight.”

“A fighter, huh?”

Lieutenant Dunbar had not replied to this. They stared silently at one another for what seemed a long time before the major began to write. He wrote furiously, ignorant of the sweat cascading down his temples. Dunbar could see more oily drops sitting in formation on top of the nearly bald head. Greasy strips of the major’s remaining hair were plastered along his skull. It was a style that reminded Lieutenant Dunbar of something unhealthy.

The major paused in his scribbling only once. He coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it into an ugly pail at the side of the desk. At that moment Lieutenant Dunbar wished the encounter to be over. Everything about this man made him think of sickness.

Lieutenant Dunbar had it pegged better than he knew, because the major had, for some time, clung to sanity by the slenderest thread, and the thread had finally snapped ten minutes before Lieutenant Dunbar walked into the office. The major had sat calmly at his desk, hands clasped neatly in front of him, and forgotten his entire life. It had been a powerless life, fueled by the pitiful handouts that come to those who serve obediently but make no mark. But all the years of being passed over, all the years of lonely bachelorhood, all the years of struggle with the bottle, had vanished as if by magic. The bitter grind of Major Fambrough’s existence had been supplanted by an imminent and lovely event. He would be crowned king of Fort Hays some time before supper.

The major finished writing and handed the paper up.

“I’m posting you at Fort Sedgewick; you report directly to Captain Cargill.”

Lieutenant Dunbar stared down at the messy form.

“Yes, sir. How will I be getting there, sir?”

“You don’t think I know?” the major said sharply.

“No, sir, not at all. It’s just that I don’t know.”

The major leaned back in his chair, shoved both hands down the front of his pants, and smiled smugly.

“I’m in a generous mood and I will grant your boon. A wagon loaded with goods of the realm leaves shortly. Find the peasant who calls himself Timmons and ride with him.” Now he pointed at the sheet of paper in Lieutenant Dunbar’s hand. “My seal will guarantee your safe conduct through one hundred and fifty miles of heathen territory.”

From the beginning of his career Lieutenant Dunbar had known not to question the eccentricities of field-grade officers. He had saluted smartly, said, “Yes, sir,” and turned on his heel. He had located Timmons, dashed back to the train to pick up Cisco, and had been riding out of Fort Hays within half an hour.

And now, as he stared at the orders after a hundred miles on the trail, he thought, I suppose everything will work out.

He felt the wagon slowing. Timmons was watching something in the buffalo grass close by as they came to a halt.

“Look yonder.”

A splash of white was lying in the grass not twenty feet from the wagon, and both men climbed down to investigate.

It was a human skeleton, the bones bleached bright white, the skull staring up at the sky.

Lieutenant Dunbar knelt next to the bones. Grass was growing through the rib cage. And arrows, a score or more, sticking out like pins on a cushion. Dunbar pulled one out of the earth and rolled it around in his hands.

As he ran his fingers along the shaft, Timmons cackled over his shoulder.

“Somebody back east is wonderin’, ‘Why don’t he write?’”

two

That evening it rained buckets. But the downpour came in shifts as summer storms are wont to do, somehow seeming not so damp as other times of the year, and the two travelers slept snugly under the tarp-draped wagon.

The fourth day passed much the same as the others, without event. And the fifth and the sixth. Lieutenant Dunbar was disappointed about the lack of buffalo. He had not seen a single animal. Timmons said the big herds sometimes disappeared altogether. He also said not to worry about it because they’d be thick as locusts when they did show up.

They’d not seen a single Indian either, and Timmons had no explanation for this. He did say that if he ever saw another Indian, it would be too soon, and that they were much better off not being hounded by thieves and beggars.

By the seventh day, Dunbar was only half listening to Timmons.

As they ate up the last miles he was thinking more and more about arriving at his post.

three

Captain Cargill felt around inside his mouth, his eyes staring up as he concentrated. A light of realization, followed quickly by a frown.

Another loose one, he thought. Goddammit.

In a woebegone way the captain looked first at one wall, then another in his dank sod quarters. There was absolutely nothing to see. It was like a cell.

Quarters, he thought sarcastically. Goddamn quarters.

Everyone had been using that term for more than a month, even the captain. He used it unashamedly, right in front of his men. And they in front of him. But it wasn’t an inside thing, a lighthearted jest among comrades. It was a true curse.

And it was a bad time.

Captain Cargill had let his hand fall away from his mouth. He sat alone in the gloom of his goddamn quarters and listened. It was quiet outside, and the quiet broke Cargill’s heart. Under normal circumstances the air outside would be filled with the sounds of men going about their duties. But there had been no duties for many days. Even busywork had fallen by the wayside. And there was nothing the captain could do about it. That’s what hurt him.

As he listened to the terrible silence of the place he knew that he could wait no longer. Today he would have to take the action he had been dreading. Even if it meant disgrace. Or the ruin of his career. Or worse.

He shoved the “or worse” out of his mind and rose heavily to his feet. Making for the door, he fumbled for a moment with a loose button on his tunic. The button fell away from its thread and bounced across the floor. He didn’t bother to pick it up. There was nothing to sew it back on with.

As he stepped into the bright sunshine, Captain Cargill allowed himself to imagine one last time that a wagon from Fort Hays would be standing there in the yard.

But there was no wagon. Just this dismal place, this sore on the land that didn’t deserve a name.

Fort Sedgewick.

Captain Cargill looked hung over as he stood in the doorway of his sod cell. He was hatless and washed-out, and he was taking stock one last time. There were no horses in the flimsy corral that not so long ago was home to fifty. In two and a half months the horses were stolen, replaced, and stolen again. The Comanches had helped themselves to every one.

His eyes drifted to the supply house just across the way. Aside from his own goddamn quarters, it was the only other standing structure at Fort Sedgewick. It had been a bad job from the start. No one knew how to build with sod, and two weeks after it went up, a good part of the roof had caved in. One of the walls was sagging so badly that it seemed impossible for it to stand at all. Surely it would collapse soon.

It doesn’t matter, Captain Cargill thought, stifling a yawn.

The supply house was empty. It had been empty now for the better part of a month. They had been living on what was left of the hard crackers and what they could shoot on the prairie, mostly rabbits and guinea fowl. He had wished so hard for the buffalo to come back. Even now his taste buds sat up at the thought of a hump steak. Cargill pursed his lips and fought back a sudden tearing in his eyes.

There was nothing to eat.

He walked fifty yards across open, bare ground to the edge of the bluff on which Fort Sedgewick was built and stared down at the quiet stream winding noiselessly a hundred feet below. A coating of miscellaneous trash lined its banks, and even without benefit of an updraft, the rank odor of human waste wafted into the captain’s nostrils. Human waste mixed with whatever else was rotting down there.

The captain’s gaze swept down the gentle incline of the bluff just as two men emerged from one of the twenty or so sleeping holes carved into the slope like pockmarks. The filthy pair stood blinking in the bright sunshine. They stared sullenly up at the captain but made no sign of acknowledgment. And neither did Cargill. The soldiers ducked back into their hole as if the sight of their commander had forced them back in, leaving the captain standing alone on top of the bluff.

He thought of the little deputation his men had sent to the sod hut eight days ago. Their appeal had been reasonable. In fact, it had been necessary. But the captain had decided against a ruling. He still hoped for a wagon. He had felt it was his duty to hope for a wagon.

In the eight days since, no one had spoken to him, not a single word. Except for the afternoon hunting trips, the men had stayed close by their holes, not communicating, rarely being seen.

Captain Cargill started back for his goddamn quarters, but he halted halfway there. He stood in the middle of the yard staring at the tops of his peeling boots. After a few moments of reflection, he muttered, “Now,” and marched back the way he had come. There was more spring in his step as he gained the edge of the bluff.