John Dunbar,

Sujet du devoir

Bonjour, à vrai dire je ne comprend pas vraiment ce texte, et je n'ai pas compris qui était le personnage principal et le but de son arrivé dans le passage.
John Dunbar est un jeune lieutenant de cavalerie, des années 1863. Il trouve une femme Indienne blessée. Voilà tout ce que j'ai compris de "clair." Je pense que la femme croit que c'est un homme qui veut la tuer car elle dit "white soldier." et tout le monde s'agite dans le village car ils ont peur, mais je ne comprend pas pourquoi puisqu'il veut la sauver. C'est un casque bleu ou vraiment un soldat ? Vers la fin, la foule se tait pour écouter le lieutenant dire "elle est blessée." Et dans l'avant dernier paragraphe John rentre sur son cheval et ne se sent pas un Commanche comme eux avec leur esprit et coutume et qu'il ne fera jamais parti de leur tribu malgré qu'il est aidé. Et il se sent morose on dirait car il dit qu'il aurait pu être à des centaines de km de ce moment qu'il vient de passer "he might as well have been a thousand miles away.".
Enfin voilà, c'est une catastrophe, j'ai pas un paragraphe que je peux traduire seule. Est-ce que vous pouvez m'aider s'il vous plait, pour quelques expressions, ou des morceaux de traduction. Après j'essayerais de faire un plan, avec des analyses, mais pour le moment c'est difficile comme je ne comprend pas. Merci.

Où j'en suis dans mon devoir

John Dunbar, a young cavalry lieutenant finds himself alone in an isolated outpost at the edge of the American frontier with Indian territory in the year 1863. He has just found a wounded Indian woman and he now takes her back to her village.
The woman screamed as she let go of the water she was hauling, scooped up her children, and broke for the village, crying. "White soldier, white soldier," at the top of her lunds. Scores of Indian dogs went off like firecrackers, women shrieked for their children, and horses stampeded around the lodges, neighing wildly. It was full-scale pandemonium.
The entire band thought it was under attack.
As he drew closer to the village Lieutenant Dunbar could see men running everywhere. Those who had got hold of weapons were going for their horses with a whooping that reminded him of game birds in a panic. The village in upheaval was just a otherwordly as the village in repose. It was like a great nest of homet people into which a stick had been poked.
The men who had reached their horses were swarming into a force that would momentarily race out to meet him, perhaps to kill him. He had not expected to create scu a stir, nor had he expected these people to be so primitive. But there was someting else that weighed on him as he moved close to the village, something that blotted out all else. For the first time in his life Lieutenant Dunbar knew what it felt to be an invade. It was a feeling he didn't like, and it had to do with the action he took next. The last thing he wanted was to be regarded as an intruder, and when he reached the bare ground of a clearing at the mouth of the village, when he was close enough to see through the curtain of dust that had been raised by the clamor and into the eyes of the people inside, he squeezed the reinsonce more and came to a stop.
Then he dismounted, taking the woman into his arm, and walked a pace or two in front of his horse. There he stood still, his eyes closed, holding the wounded girl like some strange traveler bearing a strange gift.
The lieutenant listened hard as the village, in stages that lasted only a few seconds each, grew oddly quiet. The dusty curtain began to settle, and Dunbar perceived with his ears that the mass of humanity that had raised such a fearful howling only moments before was now creeping toward him. In the eerie quiet he could hear the occasional clank of some item of gear, the rustling of footsteps, the snort of a horse as it pawed and jostled impatiently.
He opened his eyes to see that the whole band had gathered at the village entrance, warriors and young men in front, women and children behind them. It was a dream of wild people, clothed in skins and colored fabric, a whole separate race of humans watching him breathlessly not a hundred yards away. [...]
With an inward sigh of relied Lieutenant Dunbar saw Wind in His Hair leap off the pony and start across the clearing, a stone war club swinging loosely in his hand. He was coming over, and if the warrior had any fear at all it was well masked, for his face was ungiving and uncaring, set, it seemed, on doling out a punishment.
The assembly fell silent as the space between the immobile Lieutenant Dunbar and the fast-striding Wind In His Hair shrank steadily to nothing. It was too late to stop whatever was going to happen. Everyone stood still and watched. [...]
When Wind His Hair was within a few feet and slowing his pace, the lieutenant said in a clear, strong voice : "She's hurt."
He shifted his load a little as the warrior stared into the woman's face, and Dunbar could see that he recognized her. In fact, Wind in His Hair's shock was so plain that, for a moment, the awful idea that she might have died flashed through his head. The lieutenant looked down at her, too.
And as he did, she was torn from his arms. In one strong, sure motion she'd been ripped from his grasp, and before Dunbar knew it, the warrior was walking back toward the village hauling Stands with A Fist roughly along, like a dog would a pup. As he went he called something out that prompted a collective exclamation of surprise from the Comanches. They rushed forward to meet him.
The lieutenant stood motionless in front of his horse, and as the village swirled around Wind In His Hair, he felt the spirit run out of him. These were not his people. He would never know them. He might as well have been a thousand miles away. He wanted to be small, small enough to crawl into the smallest, darkest hole.
What had he expected of these people? He must have thought they would run out and throw their arms around him, speak his language, have him to supper, share his jokes, without so much as a how-do-you-do. How lonely he must be...
Michael Blake.