Maung Tun Thu - Dances with Wolves

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Bo Damba couldn't swallow it all. That was the first word that came to his mind. Everything was so grand and magnificent and so beautiful.

The vast, cloudless sky, the rolling ocean, the rolling grassland. No matter where you look, you can't see anything else. There's no main road. There's no carriageway that can be used by four-wheeled carts. There's just a vast, open field.

His mind was lost in the scene, lost in thought. The whole scene had deeply affected his mind. His heart was even shaken by the deep emotion.

The body of the great man sitting on the cart was rolling along with the prairie grass. His chest was moving a lot, as if it were being hit by a wave of excitement. However, his blood was still, calm and calm. His heart was full of joy. He could not express in words what he felt. His heart seemed to know. But he could not express it clearly.

He was deeply attached to this beautiful, natural wilderness and everything in it, and his love was selfless, a kind of reverent love. It was a love that would last forever.

Sitting next to him, Timmon turned his face to the side and spat on the waist-high grass. Damba thought this was the thousandth time he had ever spat.

Most cart drivers have the habit of spitting frequently. The amount of saliva that comes out of their mouths is not small. It comes out in large quantities at a time. Demba didn't say anything to Tim Mon, who kept spitting all the way, but he was disgusted in his heart. In fact, spitting on his own was not something that could harm him. He got angry every time Tim Mon spat.

They had been sitting together all morning. Although they were two feet apart, Demba, who was downwind, could smell the scent of Tin Mon. He couldn't stand the smell of Tin Mon. For almost thirty years, he had been breathing the scent of dead people. It wasn't as bad as the smell coming from Tin Mon.

Sometimes when the wind changed, the smell of Tin Mon would not reach him. Sometimes when the wind was strong, the strong smell of Tin Mon would bother him. At such times, he would go and sit on the pile of provisions in the back of the cart. Sometimes, he would jump down from the cart into the tall grass and ride his horse, “Kisko,” which was tied to the tail of the cart, and would go out a mile or two ahead of the cart as a scout.

He turned from his seat and looked at his horse, Kisco. Kisco was following closely behind the cart. He was eating from a food pouch on his nose. The deerskin covering his body was glistening in the sunlight.

Damba looked at his horse and smiled. He thought that if horses lived as long as humans, it would be great. If he was lucky, he thought that Kisco would live another ten or twelve years. He had seen many horses. But to have a horse as good as Kisco was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If Kisco was gone, it would be very difficult to find a horse like him to take his place.

While Demba was watching, Kisco raised his head and stared at Demba. When he realized Demba was there, he calmly munched on the food in his food bag.

Damba sat back in his chair and pulled a folded piece of paper from his tunic pocket with one hand. He was uneasy about this order from the army. He had looked at this paper half a dozen times since he left Fort Hays. Every time he looked at it, he felt a pang of ecstasy.

His name was misspelled in two places. The Major, who smelled of alcohol, signed the document. The ink from the pen dripped as he signed. However, the Major folded the document without letting the ink dry, and the entire document became blurry and jagged.

And the order was not dated, so he had to write the date himself when he got to the cart. However, he wrote it in pencil, and it didn't fit on the major's scribbled signature.

Colonel Damba looked at the order and sighed. This paper did not look like an order issued by the army, but rather like a piece of paper picked up from a trash can.

Every time he looked back at this order, he thought back to how he had received it, and his mind was filled with unease. He couldn't help but remember the strange incident he had had with the major, who was reeking of alcohol.

Eager to get to work immediately, he rushed to the headquarters office. When he arrived, he noticed that the major was the only one in the entire office. That evening, when he climbed into Tin Mon's horse-drawn carriage and sat next to Tin Mon, the major was the only one in the office.

When he met him, the major stared at him for a long time with red eyes. When he finally spoke, the major's tone was the same as mine.

"Ha... a great warrior who will fight the Indians, right?"

Until then, General Dambar had never seen a single Indian, let alone fought against them.

"Ho..ho.. I haven't fought yet. I can fight if I feel like it."

"Well... Hmm... Hmm... A great fighter, I guess."

Major Damba said nothing, the two men looked at each other for a long time. Then the major wrote the order. He was writing in such a rage that he didn't even wipe the sweat dripping from his ears, and even noticed that his hair was greasy and stuck to his bald head.

The Major paused from his writing when he started to cough and quickly emptied the phlegm from his throat into the dirty spittoon on the table. Colonel Damba was disappointed to see the Major working. He wanted to get the matter done and leave the room quickly.

Colonel Dambar recalled the situation when he had first entered. As he entered the office, he saw Major Fambrough sitting calmly at his desk. The Major had folded his hands in front of him. He looked as if he had forgotten his entire life.

In fact, his life was a life of powerlessness. It was a life of solitude for many years. It was a life of struggle with a bottle of alcohol all the time. Being so alone in a very remote, very remote place was like a waste of life for him.

The major wrote the order and immediately handed it to Colonel Damba.

"I have assigned you to Fort Savage. Go and report to Captain Cargill as soon as possible."

Bo Damba looked down at the dirty paper that had fallen into his hands.

"Yes, Major. How do I get there?"

"Do you think I'll let you go without telling you?" the major asked sharply.

"No, Major, I'm asking because I don't know."

The Major leaned back in his chair. He put both hands on his pants and smiled.

"I have a good time, so I must grant you a privilege. A large wagon is leaving for that area. Find a wagon driver named Tin Mon, and go with him."

Major Fambrough pointed to the paper in Colonel Dambar's hand and added, "My signature will keep you safe in a hundred and fifty miles of the heretics' territory."

Colonel Damba, who had known the tricks of the front-line officers since he had been in the army, did not think twice about the major's words. He saluted the major, replied, "Yes, Major," and hurried out. He immediately went in search of Tim Mon. As soon as he found him, he took his horse, Kisco, and left the Hayes Fort.

He had now set out, having traveled a hundred miles. At this point, he looked at his orders again and thought, "Everything will be fine." He noticed that the cart had slowed down. He saw Tin Mon, who was nearby, looking down into the tall grass.

"Look over there... do you see?"

They saw a white object about 20 feet away from the cart. The two of them jumped out of the cart and went to look.

It was a human skull and skeleton. The skull had large, bulging eyes staring up at the sky. Bo Damba knelt down beside the skeleton. Grass sprouted from between the ribs. Many arrows were also stuck between the ribs. Damba pulled out an arrow and looked carefully.

That evening, it rained heavily. It was the kind of rain that comes with a storm in the summer. But it wasn't as wet and muggy as it usually is in other months. The two travelers slept comfortably under the tarpaulin of the wagon.

The fourth day passed without any unusual events, just like the previous days. The fifth and sixth days were the same. Bo Damba was sad because he did not see any wild buffalo. He did not see a single one of the buffalo he wanted to see so much. Tim Mon said that large herds of wild buffalo sometimes disappeared like this. He also said that he did not want to worry because he did not see them for the time being. He also said that when wild buffalo appeared, they were so numerous that they would not even want to look.

They had not seen any Indians on the way there. In this case, Tim Mon did not explain why.

On the seventh day, Bo Damba was no longer interested in anything that Tim Mon said. He could hear nothing at all. During the last part of the journey, Bo Damba was only anxious to reach his assigned camp as soon as possible.

Captain Cargill was staring at the sky. A flash of light entered his consciousness. Another one was gone, he thought, and he cursed inwardly.

Captain Cargill looked around the walls of the camp, which were very damp and gloomy, with a very sad heart. There was nothing to see in it. In fact, he thought that the camp house where he lived was no different from a death row in a prison.

"Should we call this a camp?"

I thought. It had been over a month since everyone had been using the word "camp," and hadn't he himself shamelessly used the word in front of his subordinates?

He sat alone in the camp, listening. It was quiet outside. Under normal circumstances, one would hear the sounds of people working outside, each with their own responsibilities. But now, he had not had any work for several days. He himself could do nothing about it.

Scarily quiet.