Ghost Dance (36 page)

"Though she is my own woman," said Chance, "I will buy her."

"I will not sell her," said Drum, "not for twenty horses or a thousand bullets."

"I will give you forty horses," said Chance, "a hundred boxes of bullets." He did not consider at the moment where he might obtain such riches. Somehow he could; somehow he would.

"I will not sell her," said Drum.

"Please," said Lucia.

Drum regarded her contemptuously.

"Please–" said Lucia, begging him, "–sell me."

"Do you want to be my squaw?" asked Drum.

"No!" cried Lucia, "no, no!"

Drum threw back his head and laughed, and then he slapped his leg with pleasure. "If you wanted to be my squaw," he said, "then maybe I would sell you."

Chance's fists closed. Lucia subsided into crushed, helpless silence.

"Why will you not give up the woman?" asked Chance.

Drum looked at him. "I want her," he said.

"Tomorrow morning," said Old Bear, speaking to both men, "you will fight."

About the campfire there was a murmur of assent to Old Bear's words.

"No," said Lucia to Chance. "I will be his woman."

"I will not permit it," said Chance.

"Please," said Lucia.

"No," said Chance. "I will not permit it."

Drum looked at Lucia, puzzled.

Then the two men regarded one another.

"For a long time, Medicine Gun," said Drum, "there has been bad blood between us. Tomorrow we will end the blood that is bad between us."

Chance nodded.

Drum looked down at him. "I am not angry with you, Medicine Gun," he said.

Chance looked up, surprised. He regarded the swift, lithe young brave. Somehow, now that the matter was settled, he, too, felt no anger. "And I," said Chance, "am not angry with the son of Kills-His-Horse."

"Good," said Drum.

Chance nodded, looking down at the dirt.

"Give up the woman," said Drum.

Chance looked up again, more surprised than before. "I will not give her up," he said.

"Then," said Drum, "we will fight."

"Yes," said Chance, "we will fight."

Tomorrow one of them would be dead.

"Take the coats of these men," said Old Bear, gesturing to Grawson and Totter, "and give them to the women and children."

Two braves tied the feet of Grawson and Totter. Then, they untied their arms and removed the warm greatcoats, afterwards rebinding their arms.

When Totter's greatcoat was pulled off, Drum's eye was taken of a sudden by the soldier's sleeve. He went to Totter and held the bound arm. Then Drum's sudden cry of joy rang through the camp, like sun off the blade of a lifted knife. Chance looked more closely. In the light of the fire he could see Drum's hand on Totter's arm, and the blue sleeve, where two chevrons had been torn off.

As the Indians bent forward to see more closely, and the women and children pressed in, Drum released Totter's arm and from the recesses of his medicine bag withdrew one stained, wrinkled yellow chevron. This he held against Totter's sleeve, his face evil with delight.

"Winona!" cried Drum. "Winona!"

Winona came forward, facing Totter, who knelt frozen with fear bound before her.

At the side of Winona stood Running Horse.

Totter numbly shook his head, back and forth, denying a charge that had not yet been made.

"It wasn't me," said Totter. "Not me." Totter began to whimper. "You got the wrong feller," he said. "It wasn't me."

Without speaking Running Horse withdrew from his own medicine bag a second wrinkled, yellow chevron. This he too held to Totter's sleeve. It too, of course, matched.

Totter shook his head again. "No," he said, his voice only a whisper, terrified. "No," he said, "it wasn't me." His eyes screamed, looked to Winona, imploring.

The girl's face bore no trace of emotion; then without speaking she turned and made her way back through the Indians, leaving him.

Totter looked from Drum to Running Horse, to Old Bear, puzzled, not understanding.

"Give him to the women," said Old Bear.

Totter screamed like a girl, struggling and biting as he was staked out near the fire. Now he was sobbing, his body stripped and his legs and arms tied widely apart. Several of the women, led by the thin woman with mourning wounds, crowded about his helpless figure.

"Let us dance," said Old Bear, unpacking his pipe, putting his tobacco pouch in his lap. He gestured to one of the children to bring him a twig, from the fire which he could use in lighting the pipe.

The Indians began, with the exception of Old Bear and two or three rather old men, to get to their feet.

Two of Drum's young men carried Grawson, bound hand and foot, from the fire to one of the blanket shelters against the lee wall of the camp. His fate would be decided later.

The tom-tom resumed its beat.

Chance, still sitting by Old Bear, watched the Indian men form a large circle about the fire. This dance, he knew, was a dance of men. It was not a dance in which the women might participate. But this time the women would not stand outside the circle, stamping the time with their feet. They were within the circle, crouching over the body of Totter, arguing, planning.

"Where is the Scalp Pole?" laughed Drum.

He seized Lucia by the arm and dragged her inside the circle of warriors.

Old Bear put his hand on Chance's knee, keeping him from interfering. "No," said the old man. He drew a slow puff on his pipe. "It is an old custom of the Sioux," he said, "that the captive female will hold over her head the scalps of her people while the victorious warriors dance about her."

"Edward!" cried Lucia from inside the circle.

Drum's hand was in her hair and he had forced her to her knees over the grisly bundle of scalps, but she would not put her hands in them.

He bent her face closer and closer to the scalps as she, fighting the agony of her hair, tried to pull away.

Then for some reason Drum, though he did not permit her to rise, nor did he remove his hand from her hair, allowed her to lift her head and then he twisted it suddenly to face Chance.

The tom-tom stopped.

Drum, holding Lucia, watched Chance.

Lucia's eyes were half crazed with pain, and Chance, by an effort of will, restrained himself from leaping to his feet and attacking Drum with his bare hands.

Chance looked at Lucia, trying to show no emotion.

"Edward!" she cried piteously. "What will I do? What will I do?"

For a moment the only sound in the camp was the crackle of the large fire.

Then Chance said, "Pick them up."

Lucia looked at him with disbelief; then she shook with revulsion.

The Indians, not simply Drum, were watching. If she were his woman, she would obey him.

"Pick them up," repeated Chance, quietly, matter of factly issuing the girl her imperative; his tone of voice expressed no doubt whatsoever of her compliance, in its gentle way permitted her no alternative save obedience.

Lucia looked at him with horror.

Then, shutting her eyes, she thrust her hands in the scalps, clutching them.

The tom-tom suddenly resumed its beat.

Drum jerked Lucia to her feet and dragged her near the fire, and then, holding her wrists, lifted her hands and their grisly burden over her head, as she must hold them for the duration of the dance, even though it might take hours. Drum stepped back and laughed with pleasure, seeing her standing thus, captive female, dressed to the pleasure of her captors, holding over her head the scalps of her kind, a living Scalp Pole, about which men might dance.

Then Drum took his place in the circle of warriors and terrible in the light of the ceremonial fire the contorted shapes of the dancing, shouting, fighting men of the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou began to turn and shuffle and stamp about her in a ritual that antedated in the lives of the Indians the horse, the firearm, even the steel knife; a ritual that was ancient even before the first ships of the white men, their sails like the wings of birds, had come to the New World.

As the dance went on it seemed to become even wilder and one brave or another would leap into the air, drunk on the frenzy of the dance, and cry out and strike to the left or the right with a knife or hatchet.

As they danced they acted out wars and victories, their triumphs and the triumphs of their people.

Shuddering, Lucia watched the men dance, knowing that they danced not only about the scalps, but about her as well, and that she herself, like the scalps, was trophy, prize.

Sudden screams from Totter began to pierce the noise of the dance, each scream seeming to spur the warriors to a new frenzy of joy.

Chance couldn't see much of Totter, because of the women kneeling about him, working; he had some idea of what they were doing, with their awls and scrapers; in spite of his experience in medicine and surgery he did not expect he could have observed their performance with equanimity; he was familiar with the patient bead and needle work of Indian women, the intricate patterns, the delicacy, the care with which the work was done.

Old Bear was smoking, watching the dance.

Running Horse, Chance noticed, did not dance, undoubtedly because of Chance, and his respect for the wishes of his brother. Winona was with the women, near Totter, but not working on the body, rather watching. She did not, as far as Chance could see, show any emotion.

Some of the work done on Totter involved pine needles, shavings, tiny beads of pine resin and fire, but the women, too, had taken a handful of bullets from his saddlebags, in spite of how precious these things were, and had patiently, for this occasion, pried the bullets open, making two rows of tiny brass cups filled with gunpowder, like so many miniature thimbles; then, with their knives and awls, they had opened pockets in his flesh which they filled with the powder from the cartridges. Then, from time to time, they would touch fire to one of these pockets and there would be a sudden start of smoke and a terrible scream from Totter. When he lost consciousness as happened frequently, they would rub his face and body with snow, reviving him. Because of the careful nature of their work, Chance supposed Totter might last several hours, or indefinitely; he would last, Chance supposed, until the women tired.

Chance found Totter's screams like nails driven into his head. He, Chance, a white man, was sitting there, doing nothing, while Totter, another white man, was being tortured. Yet what could he do? He was armed. It wouldn't make any difference. He might try to rescue him, but would probably get them both killed. It would be foolish. And there was Lucia, who must come first.

In the morning, said Chance to himself, I must meet Drum.

He watched Lucia, her arms holding the grotesque, matted bundle over her head. Her eyes were shut. Chance knew by now her arms would be aching. Yet she would stand thus, alive, shamed, a trophy, for as long as the Indians wished, until the dance was ended.

The circle of warriors turned ever more fiercely about the fire and the girl; the cries of Totter became ever more hysterical; the fire seemed to burn hotter and fiercer until the world seemed shadows and cries and turning bodies and the fire.

Chance looked on Lucia.

Opening her eyes she saw him, watching her, quietly sitting cross-legged near Old Bear and Running Horse, like an Indian, watching the dance, not showing feelings.

Then for the second time was she afraid of him.

What are you, she asked herself, that I cannot help loving you; what are you that I must love you; I belong to you, Edward Chance, man, but I do not know you; what are you that I belong to; you sit so quietly, you watch; what are you thinking; what are your feelings; are you civilized, my love, and kind, or are you in your heart like these, a savage; in your heart are you among these others, dancing about me, a cry on your lips, in your hand a knife; are you tender, Edward Chance; will you be gentle; or will you lead me, like Drum, bound, to your lodge; why did you tell me to do this; why did I obey you; why did I know that I must obey you; you are strange, Edward Chance; I do not know you; I know little of you except that I am yours, that I belong to you; I am frightened; you frighten me, you sit so quietly; you watch; my arms hurt; so much my arms hurt; but I will not put them down; I cannot, because you have not told me; when will you let me put them down; when will you say to me, "Put them down"; I am tired, my love; when may I rest; when will you say to me, "Put them down"; what is this love that so gives me to you; why is it that I, softness, must yield to your hardness; my flower to your steel; that I, woman, must be yours, my Edward Chance, beloved stranger?

She looked at him, and he, with his eyes, answered her.

I am no longer afraid, she said to herself, no longer. I am with my love. I am not afraid.

Chance, torn, watched the dance, waiting for it to end, but it did not seem it would. How brave she is, he thought; how fine and strong; even the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou must acknowledge this woman, who is a strong person, who has good heart; she is superb, this woman, my love; my tender, gentle, sweet love.

The sudden yelps of the dance startled the night and the burning of the huge fire of the Scalp Dance continued unabated. The stamping of the feet and the twisting of the bodies and the cries and the beat of the tom-tom swirled like clouds and flaming wind in the stone cup of the canyon, madness and natural forces whirling mixed with man and cruelty and victory in that distant, isolated place called the Bad Lands, where so little grew, where the bones of ancient predators lay strewn in the white dust, where the outside worlds that Chance remembered and knew, the worlds that had formed him, seemed unknown, remote, forgotten, nonexistent.

Totter was screaming again, incoherently. "Nancy, Nancy!" he cried. "Don't let them hurt me!"

Chance saw Winona rise from among the women and stand over Totter, looking down on him.

Still he saw no trace of emotion on the face of the Indian girl.

"Nancy!" cried Totter. "Don't let them hurt me!"

He never understood what the girl replied, for she spoke in Sioux. "I am Winona," she said, "the daughter of Old Bear, chief of the Hunkpapa, and the woman of Running Horse, who is a warrior, and wears the feather of an eagle." Then Winona turned away from him, leaving him to the others.