Dances With Wolves by Michael Blake Page B

streak of her blood on his face. Off and on he would lift the compress and take a look. And each time he would stare in frustration at the blood that refused to stop. Then he would replace the compress.
    But he stayed with it.
    Finally, when the blood had slowed to a trickle, he went into action. The thigh wound needed to be sewn shut, but that was impossible. He cut a leg off the long underwear, folded it into a dressing, and laid it flat on the wound. Then, working as fast as he could, the lieutenant cut another strip from the flag and tied it securely around the bandage. He repeated this process with the lesser arm wounds.
    As he worked, Stands With A Fist began to groan. She opened her eyes a few times but was too weak to make a fuss, even when he took up his canteen and poured a sip or two of water into her mouth.
    After he had done all he could as a doctor, Dunbar put his uniform back on, wondering what to do as he buttoned his trousers and tunic.
    He saw her pony out on the prairie and thought of catching it. But when he looked at the woman in the grass, it didn’t make sense. She might be able to ride, but she would need help.
    Dunbar glanced at the western sky. The smoky cloud was nearly gone. Only a few wisps remained. If he hurried, he could point himself in that direction before the cloud vanished.
    He slipped his arms under Stands With A Fist, picked her up, and piled her as smoothly as he could onto Cisco’s back, intending to lead while she rode. But the girl was semiconscious and started to keel over as soon as she was on.
    With one hand holding her in place, he managed to jump up behind. Then he turned her around, and looking like a father cradling his stricken daughter, Dunbar steered his horse in the direction of the smoky cloud.
    As Cisco carried them across the prairie, the lieutenant thought about his plan to impress the wild Indians. He didn’t look very mighty or very official now. There was blood on his tunic and his hands. The girl was bandaged with his underwear and a United States flag.
    It had to be better this way. When he thought about what he had done, cavorting stupidly around the countryside with polished boots and a silly red sash and, of all things, a flag flying at his side, the lieutenant smiled sheepishly.
    I must be an idiot, he thought.
    He looked at the cherry hair under his chin and wondered what this poor woman must have thought when she saw him in his dandy getup.
    Stands With A Fist wasn’t thinking at all. She was in twilight. She was only feeling. She felt the horse swaying under her, she felt the arm across her back, and she felt the strange fabric against her face. Most of all Stands With A Fist felt safe, and all the way back she kept her eyes closed, afraid that if she opened them, the feeling would be gone.

CHAPTER XIII
    one
     
    Smiles A Lot was not a reliable boy.
    No one would have characterized him as a troublemaker, but Smiles A Lot disliked work, and unlike most Indian boys, the idea of shouldering responsibility left him cold.
    He was a dreamer, and as a dreamer often does, Smiles A Lot had learned that one of the better stratagems for avoiding the boredom of work was to keep to himself.
    It followed, then, that the shiftless boy spent as much time as possible with the band’s large pony herd. He drew the assignment regularly, in part because he was always ready to go and in part because he had, at the age of twelve, become an expert with horses.
    Smiles A Lot could predict to within hours the foaling time for mares. He had a knack for controlling unruly stallions. And when it came to doctoring, he knew as much or more about tending to equine ailments as any grown man in the band. The horses just seemed to fare better when he was around.
    All of this was second nature to Smiles A Lot . . . second nature and secondary. What he liked most about being with the horses was that they grazed away from camp, sometimes as far as a mile, and this placed Smiles A Lot far