Eight miles west of Fort Sedgewick, a cloud rises up. Dunbar thinks it might be a prairie fire, but it’s from the cook fires of a band of Comanche, 172 strong, lately back at their summer camp to hunt buffalo. Dunbar takes his dirty clothes and bedding to the river to do laundry. He removes his uniform as well. Naked, he shaves off his two-week-old beard. He walks downstream, looking for rocks on which to pound the laundry.

Kicking Bird, the new medicine man respected for his selfless competence, goes for a morning ride to clear his head. He wonders at the recent arrivals he has seen, the “hair mouths,” especially the soldiers at their fort. They don’t bathe, they frighten easily, they ride and shoot poorly, they worship written pages. He aims his pony toward the fort, expecting it to be empty; instead, he finds it clean and orderly. Someone has begun to maintain it.

His wash done and hanging on a tree to dry, Dunbar walks back to the fort. As he approaches, he sees one of the Comanche walking about, inspecting things.