Ghost Dance (38 page)

Pity?

Grawson would have hated that.

He had given Grawson his Colt, unloaded, and a handful of bullets.

"You're a fool," the big man had said, taking the weapon, the bullets.

Perhaps, thought Chance, perhaps I am a fool, but perhaps there is some difference.

I saw, as you did not, what was done to Totter.

Edward Chance, though he rode with the Hunkpapa, though he was used to the weight of a weapon at his thigh, the precision steel of a device for killing, had seen enough, had seen too much; never again, if he could help it, would a man die as Totter had, no matter who the man might be, Grawson or any other, stranger or mortal enemy.

And yet if this simply, this alone, was his motivation, he found it hard to understand what he had said to Grawson. He had said simply, knowing he would meet this man again, "I do not let the Hunkpapa do my killing."

The big man had disappeared from the brush shelter.

Chance remained behind, to meet Drum, to fight for a woman–whom he could not keep even should he win her.

There was the scream, announcing the discovery.

The thin woman, she with the scabs of mourning wounds crusted on her face, had crept to Grawson's brush shelter, to be the first to taunt the prisoner.

Her shriek awakened the camp.

She scrambled among the blanket shelters and the snowy figures of sleeping warriors curled like dogs in the snow, pulling at them with long fingers, jabbing them, shaking them, screaming. Then she stood in the center of the camp, almost over Totter's corpse, holding Grawson's severed bonds in her fists, shaking them like snakes, looking at the gray sky, howling in disappointment.

Warriors sprang up bewildered, some angry, some looking about as if to see soldiers on the cliffs or the horses gone. The startled shrill voices of the squaws pierced the bedlam, ringing from the stone walls of the canyon.

Then suddenly the camp fell quiet.

Chance, not looking or paying much attention, felt them turn toward him, then heard the movement of dozens of moccasined feet on the snow, coming towards him.

He stood up, getting himself out of the blanket. He picked it up by one corner, straightened it out and began to fold it into neat squares.

When the blanket was folded Chance dropped it to the ground and looked at the Indians.

Their eyes were not pleasant.

It suddenly occurred to Chance that they might expect him to take Grawson's place. He hadn't even thought of that. He did not much care to think of it now.

He met Old Bear's eyes. The old man's gaze was stern. "The red-haired man is gone," he said.

"I set him free," said Chance.

Anger swept through the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou clustered about him; it was almost like a wind shaking branches, or the sudden, surprising shock that can move between animal and animal in a herd or pack when a stranger is suddenly, unexpectedly confronted.

"I'm sorry," said Chance.

"Why did you do this?" asked Old Bear.

Chance thought about it. "I didn't want you to kill him," he said.

"There is still a white man," said the thin woman.

She meant Chance. Bless you, thought Chance, unkindly.

"Why did you let him go?" asked Old Bear, still not satisfied.

"There has been enough killing," said Chance.

Drum pushed forward. "We can still catch him," he said. "I have looked at the prints. He bit through a picket rope and took a horse, but the prints are fresh."

"Do not go after him," said Chance.

"Why not?" asked Drum.

"He is armed," said Chance. "I gave him my gun. By now he is on the prairie and you cannot surprise him. He is dangerous. He may kill someone."

Drum moved as though to leave.

"Wait," said Old Bear. "There is time." He was looking at Chance closely.

Drum chafed with impatience.

Chance looked at him. "Are we not to fight?" he asked.

Drum glared at him, angrily.

Old Bear, regarding Chance, shook his head. "I do not think it is a good thing you have done," he said.

"Old Bear," said Chance, "is wiser than I and he may be right, but I do not think so." Chance looked at the Indians. "There has been killing at Grand River," he said, "at Wounded Knee, and on the prairie." He pointed to the stiff, angular figure of Totter. "There has been killing here." He looked at Old Bear. "Has there not been enough of killing?"

"No," said Drum.

Chance looked at him.

Drum turned to the Indians. "What of Wounded Knee?" he asked. "Medicine Gun says there has been enough killing, but Drum says there has been enough killing of the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou, not enough of white men." Drum regarded the Indians. "Drum," he said, "does not forget Wounded Knee." He pointed to the thin woman with the scabbed mourning wounds on her narrow face. "Where is your brave and your son?" he asked. "Wounded Knee," she said, looking at Chance. Then Drum, over and over, jabbed the Indians with his words, reminding each of loved ones lost at Wounded Knee, men, wives, sons, daughters, children, infants. There was almost no one present who had not lost at least one member of his family at Wounded Knee. The Indians began to stamp with rage, awaiting Drum to address them individually. And as each in turn cried "Wounded Knee!" in answer to his question, the others repeated it, and soon in Chance's ears rang a violent, enraged chorus, "Wounded Knee! Wounded Knee! Wounded Knee!" Then Drum cried out, "All the blood of all the white men in the world will not make up for Wounded Knee!"

The Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou grunted their assent.

Then the Indians were silent, regarding Chance.

He would speak very quietly. "Drum," he said, "is right. All the blood of all the white men in the world cannot make up for Wounded Knee. The white men can never make up for Wounded Knee." Then Chance paused. "But the stain of blood," he said, "cannot be made clean with more blood."

The Indians looked at him.

"I think my Brother is right," said Running Horse, now speaking for the first time. "I think what he says is hard to hear but I think it is true."

Old Bear looked thoughtful.

"Are the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou afraid to fight?" cried Drum.

"No," said Chance, looking at Drum, speaking very quietly. "They are not afraid. They have proved their courage to everyone, to me, to the Long Knives, to themselves. It is only Drum who asks if they are afraid. If anyone thinks they are afraid it is only Drum."

As one man the Indians regarded Drum.

"No," said Drum, looking down, "I do not think the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou are afraid–they are warriors."

Chance turned to the Indians. "If you go on fighting and killing you will take more scalps, you will kill more white men, more Long Knives, but in the end you must lose–there are too many to fight. If your women are to bear children and live you must live in the world with the white men."

"In the spring," said one of the Indians, a Minneconjou, "the Messiah will come and kill all the white men."

"The Messiah," said Chance, "taught peace and forgiveness."

Old Bear looked at him. "The Messiah," he said, speaking as much to himself as to Chance or the others, "taught that all men should love one another." He regarded Chance. Then, to Chance's surprise, he said slowly, repeating them from memory, the words, "Blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall find peace."

Chance stood, stunned.

"Those are good words," said one of the Indians.

"Who is to know if they are true words?" asked Old Bear.

No one spoke.

"I think," said Chance, "if you go back, you will find they are true words. I think the white man will have a heavy heart because of Wounded Knee. I do not think he really wants to fight the Hunkpapa, the Minneconjou."

"If you go back," said Drum, "you will be killed. The white man showed how he loved his Indian brothers at Wounded Knee."

"If we stay in the Bad Lands," said Old Bear, "we will starve or be killed by soldiers."

"If we are going to die," said Drum, "it is the way of the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou to die fighting." He did not speak arrogantly; he was reminding them of a fact.

"That is true," said Old Bear, "if we are going to die we will die in war. That is the way of the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou–the way of the Oglala and the Brule–the way of all the Sioux, the seven council fires, the people–the way of the riders of painted horses, the way of men who wear the feathers of eagles."

The Indians grunted their assent.

"It is true," said Chance. "It is well known that the riders of painted horses and the men who wear the feathers of eagles can die with bravery, but I say to such men, whom I respect as my brothers, sometimes it takes more courage to remove the paint from your horses and take from your hair the feathers of eagles. Sometimes it takes more courage to live than to die. It is easy to fight, but your people will die; it is hard to go back, but your people will live."

"How do you know this thing, Medicine Gun?" asked one of the Sioux.

"I do not know it," said Chance, "but I think it is true–I think it is true that if you go back in peace you will be received in peace."

"I will never go back," said Drum. "I will never take from my hair the feather of an eagle."

Chance looked to the other Indians. "If you go back in peace," he said, "it is my belief you will be received in peace."

The Indians looked to one another, and then to Old Bear. They were quiet.

"It is a hard thing to know," said Old Bear.

The old Indian then left the group and went to stand near the ashes of the ceremonial fire. He looked up into the gray sky, and standing lifted his hands to the sky. Then, after so standing for perhaps a minute, he returned to the group. "Wakan-Tonka will decide," said Old Bear.

Lucia Turner was brought from the blanket shelter, led by one of Drum's warriors, accompanied by another. The strap which had bound her ankles had been removed and fastened, like a halter, about her neck. The girl's wrists were still lashed behind her back, as securely as they had been the night before. The two braves had removed Totter's greatcoat.

Lucia looked at Chance, frightened.

"I do not understand the meaning of Old Bear," said Chance.

Old Bear pointed to Lucia. "Whose is this woman?" he asked.

"She is my woman," said Chance.

"No," said Drum.

"As warriors of the Hunkpapa you will fight," said Old Bear, addressing both Drum and Chance. "But you will fight for more than this woman. If Drum wins, the woman is his, and the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou will take the warpath. If Medicine Gun wins, the woman is his, and the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou will go in peace to the reservation."

"Wakan-Tonka will decide," said Drum.

Drum took the rifle which he had taken from Grawson, and five cartridges. Old Bear gave Chance the rifle that had been Totter's, and five cartridges.

"I must kill you, Medicine Gun," said Drum, "for my people." He looked at Chance. "My heart is heavy," he said, placing a cartridge into the weapon.

"If I die," said Chance, loading his weapon, "I am proud that it will be by the hand of Drum, who is like Kills-His-Horse, his father, a great warrior."

Drum regarded Chance, no enmity or hostility in his face. "My heart is heavy," he said, impassively, and then turned and, rifle in hand, disappeared into the arroyo at the head of the camp.

Chance waited a few minutes, feeling cold.

He looked at Lucia.

At a sign from Old Bear the brave who held the strap knotted about her neck permitted her to approach Chance. She did so and, standing near to him, lifted her lips to his, kissing him, lightly. Her lips felt cool. "I love you, Edward Chance," she said. Chance kissed her and then, carrying Totter's rifle, began to walk slowly toward the long, winding arroyo. Somewhere ahead, down that path, Drum was waiting for him.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-One

 

Chance trudged down the arroyo, wading through the snow; in places it had drifted to his knees.

He saw Drum's tracks ahead of him, extending indefinitely.

If I were Drum, Chance asked himself, how would I fight this?

His eyes searched the top ledges of the arroyo. That's it, thought Chance, I'd make tracks for a way down the arroyo until I came to a bend; then I'd double back above the arroyo; when he passed under me, I'd shoot. Chance shivered a little. Drum might already be above and behind him. Chance paused, listened, heard nothing. Everything was still, white, rugged, calm, desolate.

He looked up the side of the arroyo. It was about nine feet above him on both sides. He began to climb, carefully, not wanting to kick loose much snow; even a soft sound would carry on the cold winter air.

Near the top Chance paused, wished he had a hat to lift over the top of the arroyo on his rifle barrel; then he thought it wouldn't work; Drum would probably suspect such a trick; even if he did not, he would not be likely to fire until he had a fair, clean shot; shivering, Chance lifted his head just over the top of the arroyo, clearing it only to the level of his eyes.

He swept as much of the terrain as he could, which wasn't much from that level; he couldn't see anything but a few rocks, outcroppings, piles of drifted snow, the tops of ridges some hundred yards away or so.

Clutching his rifle, making certain his feet had solid footholds, Chance eased himself up out of the arroyo.

He was elated.

The snow at the top of the arroyo was clean, on both sides, as far as he could see; there were no tracks; the Indian was nowhere in sight.

He's still ahead of me, ran through Chance's head. He hasn't come out to double back yet. I didn't think he had. It was too soon.

Chance crawled behind some rocks that would shield him from the direction that Drum would come.

Chance wondered if the young Indian had left the arroyo yet, if he were now approaching him. It was possible, of course, that Drum had left the arroyo ahead and was simply waiting for him to trudge by underneath. Chance smiled. Drum would have a long wait. When he tired, perhaps thinking Chance had fled or not entered the arroyo, and when he came back to investigate, Chance would be waiting for him, shielded by the rocks, commanding the top of the arroyo on both sides.