Ghost Dance (15 page)

It had happened. Of course it had. Chance cried out in rage.

The bit twisted cruelly in the horse's mouth and Chance kicked him savagely toward the soddy. With a shrill snort the animal was jerked back on its haunches before the soddy, and Chance was out of the saddle, jerking his kit from the saddle roll.

He shoved Lucia away and picked up William Buckhorn and placed him on the kitchen table. From the boy's hand, as it unclasped, four rattlesnake rattles fell to the floor of the soddy.

Sweat poured down Chance's face. The inside of his shirt was drenched. The needle punctures, two sets of them, were on the calf of the left leg.

"He shouldn't have run," said Chance, talking to himself. "He shouldn't have run."

Chance improvised a tourniquet from bandages and the handle of a wooden spoon Lucia found for him.

He took a scalpel from his bag, wiped the blade with a cloth patch, passed it through the flame of the chip fire and then dipped it in a bottle of alcohol.

He cut crosses on the punctures and pressing his mouth against the boy's leg began to press and suck out what poison he could, spitting it on the floor of the soddy.

He worked without speaking for several minutes, gathering in the blood and poison and spitting it out.

William Buckhorn stirred, and his glazed eyes opened, and regarded Chance.

"They are coming," he said.

"I know," said Chance.

Chance lifted his face to Lucia. It seemed pale and haggard, desperate, angry. "How close are they?" he said, and the way he said it made her afraid.

She ran to the door.

"Two men," she said. Then she turned. "They're here," she said.

There was no hurry now.

Chance bandaged the boy's leg. He explained to Lucia about the tourniquet. "Get him to the agency as soon as you can," said Chance. "Find a doctor."

"There's a doctor at Fort Yates," said Lucia.

"Send for him," said Chance.

The men did not approach the door. Chance heard a shout from outside, perhaps from some seventy-five yards away.

It was Grawson, telling him to come out.

"Thank you for staying," said Lucia.

Chance had opened his revolver, was checking the cartridges. He spun the cylinder and closed the weapon.

"He would have died," said Lucia.

"Maybe," said Chance.

"Who are they?" asked Lucia. "The men outside?"

Chance smiled. "The law," he said.

"What did you do?" asked Lucia.

"I killed a man," said Chance.

Lucia's face went white.

"Come out, Chance!" called Grawson.

"Your name is not Smith," said Lucia.

"No," said Chance, smiling.

Before Chance could stop her, Lucia Turner had squared her shoulders and gone to the door. She threw it open and stepped out into the sunlight.

"Who are you and what do you want?" she called.

She was told.

Chance, from inside the soddy, could hear her clearly. "There's no one here by that name," she was saying.

"Come out, Chance," Grawson called.

"I'm alone," Lucia was saying. "Go away."

Chance wondered why she was doing this. Because of the boy, because he had stayed.

It was foolish. His horse was outside, saddled, the saddlebags packed.

"There's no one here," Lucia said. "It's my horse," she said.

Chance tensed as he heard a shot.

Lucia screamed.

"Your horse is dead, Chance," called Grawson. "Come out."

"Get back in here," hissed Chance to Lucia.

She obeyed him.

She was inside the soddy.

William Buckhorn lifted himself on one elbow on the table. "I will fight, too," he said.

"Keep the boy quiet," said Chance.

"You ain't got a chance," called a voice. That was Totter's voice. Not smart of him to reveal his position. He was on the other side of the soddy, away from the door. Covering the window.

Chance slid the bar behind the door, and, on his hands and knees, crawled over to the window. He stood up then, inside the window, and moved about an inch of his head from the frame, to get an eye on the outside.

Two shots smashed into the soddy, the first splintering the board that framed the window on the left, the second splashing a long, thin stream, almost like water, of dust into the center of the room.

So that was where Totter was.

Chance's cheek stung with splinters. His eyes were blinded from the shower of dust.

Lucia had screamed.

"Come out," Grawson called.

Chance tried to clear his eyes and cut his face with the sight of his Colt.

Lucia was beside him. She had dipped the him of her skirt in the water bucket and was wiping his face and eyes.

"Thanks," said Chance. Then, "You've got to get out of here."

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes," said Chance.

"I brought you some rattles," said William Buckhorn, peering over the edge of the table, looking for them.

"Yes, William, yes," said Lucia and crawled over to the table.

"There they are," he said, pointing to the ground.

"Yes, thank you, William," she said, and took them in her hand.

"Big ones," said William Buckhorn.

Just then Totter's carbine thrust through the window, poking down to find its target Chance, under the window, grabbed the barrel with one hand and jerked the gun toward him. The weapon discharged, the bullet ripping through his shirt, creasing his wrist, the sudden burn making him drop the Colt. Trotter struggled to hold the carbine, too frightened and desperate to let go. Chance jerked him halfway through the window. The broken nose, the distorted squarish face, cursing, was almost against his. Chance twisted the carbine out of Totter's hands, swinging the barrel against the side of his head. A line of blood as straight as the barrel creased the corporal's head. He fell backward, off balance, and scrambled around the outside corner of the soddy. Chance foolishly stood in the window and snapped off a wild shot. Totter had already rounded the comer of the soddy. Two pistol shots whined past Chance, knocking a double handful of dust to the floor across the room. Chance leaped back. Grawson had changed his position, covering Totter at the window. Standing well back in the room, partly shielded by the frame, Chance fired once at Grawson, who had risen to one knee. He saw some fur leap away from the collar of Grawson's coat, and then Grawson was prone again, firing at the window, once, twice. Chance supposed Totter would be around somewhere in front now, covering the door. He would still have his service revolver. Chance leaned the carbine against the wall and picked up his Colt from under the window. He rubbed his wrist. The numbness was going away. The fingers were unbroken, not sprained. Only a burn.

Now it was quiet outside.

They would not rush the soddy, or at least it would not be wise to do so. Chance didn't figure Grawson would try that, not until dark at any rate. He was surprised that Totter had come as close as he had. He probably hadn't known any better. It was not a mistake Grawson would have made. Then Chance smiled to himself. Grawson had had a good shot at him, when he was near the window. Maybe Grawson had encouraged Totter to make his play at the window, to draw Chance into view. Grawson was smart, Chance decided, and then he smiled, and Totter was probably not so smart. Grawson would have been ready to expend Totter. Nice fellow, Grawson. I'll cover you, he could imagine Grawson saying to Totter, and Totter saying, all right.

Chance sat on the floor for about fifteen minutes, mostly listening. He looked out the window twice. Nothing much to see. The grass, the prairie, his dead horse.

"I'd better get you out of here," said Chance to Lucia. "And the boy needs a doctor."

He stood up near the window, out of sight.

"Grawson," he called out.

"Come out," he heard.

"There's a woman and a sick child here," he said. "A boy. He needs help."

"Come out," called Grawson.

"Let them go," said Chance. "I'm not coming out and they may get hurt."

There was a long pause, and then he heard Grawson call. "All right. Send them out."

Lucia was wrapping William Buckhorn in two blankets.

"I'm not going," he said.

"Yes you are," said Chance.

"All right," said the boy.

"I'll take him to the Grand River Camp," said Lucia. "I can carry him there. Then we'll get horses and take him to Fort Yates. There's a doctor at Fort Yates."

"I killed four of them," said William Buckhorn, being bundled in the blankets.

"Why do you kill rattlesnakes?" asked Chance.

The boy looked at the schoolteacher and dropped his eyes. He mumbled, and spoke in Sioux. "For her," he said, "she is afraid of rattlesnakes. I kill them so she will not be afraid, and will stay with us."

"I know the answer to that question, Mr. –Smith," said Lucia. "I made the mistake of giving him some brown sugar once when he killed a snake, and then he kept killing them. I tried to stop giving him the sugar, but he kept killing them anyway. Outside I have a whole baking-powder can filled with rattles. Then I started giving him sugar again, not for the snakes, but to have him come here. So few of the Indians do. I told him not to hunt any more of them but he never listens. I scold him but it doesn't do any good."

"You don't speak Sioux," said Chance.

"No," said Lucia.

"You think he kills the snakes so you will give him sugar?"

"Of course," said Lucia.

Chance smiled and gave the boy's head a rough shake. "I think," he said to Lucia, "that you then owe this young man four lumps of brown sugar."

"I don't want to encourage that sort of thing," said Lucia.

"Four," said Chance. "Not one more nor one less, but exactly four."

"This is no time to speak of brown sugar," said Lucia.

"Four," said Chance.

Lucia went to a box on a shelf near the range and picked out four lumps, large ones, of brown sugar. She gave them to Chance and he placed them, counting them out, into the palm of William Buckhorn, who then solemnly swallowed them, one after the other.

After the last one Lucia could have sworn that William Buckhorn, in a manner surprisingly like that of a white child, winked, more of a careful squint than anything else. This squint, or signal, was clearly directed to Mr. Smith, who then returned it in kind.

"She's coming out," called Chance out the window.

William Buckhorn in her arms, a heavy burden for her, Lucia stopped at the door. "There's food in the locker by the range," she said, "some bread, bacon, flour, beans. Take what you want."

"Thanks," said Chance.

"After dark," said Lucia, "dig out the back."

Chance smiled. "I thought about it," he said. "What if they burn the roof first?"

"They'd better not," said Lucia. "This house is government property."

"Yes," said Chance, "I guess they'd better not." He smiled.

He had considered this matter with some care. The walls wouldn't burn. Only the roof. He could stay under the table, along the wall. It wouldn't make too much sense to burn the roof. At least he didn't think so.

If it came to that Grawson would do it, but hardly in the first hours.

Grawson might even enjoy the siege, the patient waiting.

He would.

Chance wondered how they were fixed for rations.

Probably not badly. They wouldn't have known how soon they would catch up with him.

There seemed to be ample food in the soddy.

But Chance had already decided to dig out, this first night.

Covering the window and the door, they might not even realize, perhaps for hours, he had made his escape.

He could make it to the Grand River Camp.

Running Horse would help him get a horse.

He would be gone.

With luck, if things worked out, he would be gone.

Lucia smiled, too.

"If I'm in the neighborhood again," said Chance, "I might want to stop in for another cup of coffee."

He unbarred the door for her.

"I would be pleased if you did so, Mr. Smith," said Lucia.

"How is that?" he asked.

"You never killed anyone," she said. "Not murdered anyway."

"How do you know?" he said.

"Because you stayed to help William," said Lucia.

Then, quickly, she turned and, as Chance swung the door open, stepped outside, carrying the boy. His head looked out of the blankets over her shoulder.

"Good-bye, Warrior," said he, speaking in Sioux.

"Good-bye, Warrior," said Chance, also speaking in Sioux.

Then they were gone.

Chance swung the door shut and barred it, and would wait until dark.

 

* * *

 

A coyote yelped somewhere, maybe a quarter mile from the Turner soddy.

The moon was very white and the prairie dust shone as though it had snowed silver.

Corporal Jake Totter, his service revolver clutched in his right hand, lay on his belly back of the soddy.

He grinned.

He could hear a scratching from the inside.

Totter pointed the barrel of the pistol at the wall of the soddy.

He could fire now if he wanted, through the wall, now, and smash open Chance's mouth and forehead with a half dozen shots. He decided to wait. It might be worth it, seeing the look on Chance's face, just before he pulled the trigger six times.

Then Chance stopped digging.

Totter waited, not minding. He licked his lips. They were dry. He put his left fist under the barrel of the pistol to support it.

Then Totter saw the tip of a knife blade poke through the wall, and then there was a hole about the size of a coffee cup, and then about the size of a lard pail, and then an arm poked through and he saw the side of Chance's head.

So intent was Totter on his quarry that he failed to hear the sound of a pair of horses not more than a handful of yards away.

Totter's finger had begun to close on the steel trigger of his weapon when suddenly the bright silvery night shattered apart almost in his ear and God he cried out scared his own sound mingling with the shriek of the Hunkpapa war cry.