Ghost Dance (42 page)

"No," said Chance, "but I'm glad."

"Hundreds of lives were saved," said the colonel.

"I'm glad," said Chance.

"I understand you were in the Bad Lands with the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou," said the colonel.

"For a time," said Chance.

The colonel was looking off through the window again, lost in thought. "They seem to respect you," he said. "They seem to trust you."

Chance said nothing.

The colonel turned to face him. "How's your shoulder?" he inquired.

Chance looked down at his arm, the white sling. "Fair," he said.

Chance was a bit puzzled. He wondered what the colonel was driving at.

"How soon before you'll be able to assume your duties?" asked the colonel.

Chance sat upright. "What duties?" he asked.

"She hasn't told you?" inquired the colonel.

"No," said Chance.

"Oh," said the colonel.

"My wife and I are going to California," said Chance.

"Of course," said the colonel. "California."

"I'm free to go, am I not?" asked Chance.

The colonel picked up a wooden, steel-pointed pen on the desk, fiddled with it a moment, tapped it twice on the desk and laid it back in its tray, between the two brass inkwells. He looked at it for a minute or so, then picked it up again.

He dipped it into the inkwell on the right side and scratched his signature on a slip of paper beneath two lines of writing.

He pushed the paper over to Chance and Chance picked it up and read it.

It was an authorization, giving him permission to travel across Standing Rock.

In effect, it said to him, You are Free.

"Thank you," said Chance, standing up. He placed the paper, folded carefully by his right hand on the desk, in his jacket pocket.

"That is, of course," the colonel said, "to be used only in case of need."

"I'm free to go, am I not?" asked Chance, wanting to check out this matter very carefully. Something in the colonel's attitude didn't strike him exactly right.

"Certainly," said the colonel. "You're going to California, that's it, isn't it?"

There was a kind of chuckle in the colonel's voice, which Chance did not quite care for.

"Yes," said Chance, regarding him somewhat narrowly, "that's right."

The colonel stood up and extended his hand. "We shall miss you at Standing Rock," he said.

Chance, puzzled, smiled. Over the desk the soldier and the physician shook hands.

"Well," said the colonel, brusquely, "before you leave, you'll want to say good-bye to your friends."

"Yes," said Chance, "I'd like that."

Now the colonel was straightening his neckerchief. He took his saber and revolver from a peg and belted them about himself. He put on his hat.

Chance followed the colonel from the small office.

They emerged on the roofed, wooden porch that fronted the building.

There Lucia, her yellow hair bright against a blue shawl, was waiting. With her was a white-haired, ruddy, handsome, well-built gentleman.

Lucia entered Chance's arms, lifting her face to him. She was happy.

He kissed her, gently holding her.

"It's all right," he whispered to her. "It's all right."

"I know," she said, "Mr. McLaughlin told me."

"I'm agent at Standing Rock," said the white-haired man, extending his hand. "My name is McLaughlin."

"My name is Edward Chance," said Chance. "I'm pleased to meet you." The two men shook hands.

"I'm only sorry," said McLaughlin, "that we can't afford to pay more."

"I don't understand," said Chance.

"But," said McLaughlin, "you'll have a free hand–no interference from me–you order what you need and we'll get it."

"I don't understand," said Chance.

"She hasn't told him yet," said the colonel to McLaughlin.

Lucia looked down, confused.

"What's this all about?" asked Chance.

"You're the new doctor at Standing Rock," said Lucia.

"The hell I am," said Chance.

McLaughlin looked puzzled. "The papers have already been processed," he said.

"I'm going to California," said Chance, firmly.

Lucia looked up at him. "Mr. McLaughlin is going to rebuild the school."

Chance looked down at her.

"Standing Rock needs a teacher," she said.

"Standing Rock," said Chance, "is no place for a woman."

"Certainly no place for a single woman," admitted Lucia.

"This is no place for you, Lucia," said Chance.

"It's actually rather nice," said Lucia. "There are large numbers of rattlesnakes; it never rains; there is a great deal of dust; the wind is always blowing; and this is where Edward Chance lives."

"I'm going to California," said Chance.

"Well," said Lucia, stoically, "if you insist on running off to California I shall certainly insist on running off after you."

Damn right, thought Chance. He wondered if it would be indecent to spank a fully grown woman.

"Before you leave," said Lucia, tipping her head up and kissing him, "you must of course say good-bye to your friends."

It would be hard, Chance thought, but I want to do it; I cannot leave otherwise.

Smiling, not letting go of his arm, Lucia guided Chance down the three wooden stairs from the porch and across the small dusty parade ground, toward the wooden gates of the fort. The colonel and McLaughlin followed.

Outside the gate Chance saw the Hunkpapa Sioux. With them were many other Indians he didn't know, except for a few of the Minneconjou who had fled to the Bad Lands with the Hunkpapa after Wounded Knee.

"Most of these Indians," McLaughlin was saying, "are Sioux–Hunkpapa, Minneconjou, Brule, Oglala–but there's Cheyenne in there, too, plenty of them."

"They want you to stay," said Lucia.

"You could make things easier for all of us," said the colonel.

"Well, Chance?" asked McLaughlin.

A boy pushed forward from the throng; it was William Buckhorn.

With his parents he had been at Fort Yates at the time of Sitting Bull's death; they had remained there, not fleeing; they had not been at Wounded Knee.

The boy came and stood before Chance and Chance asked him how he was feeling now, and the boy said all right.

Then the boy went to Lucia and tugged at her sleeve. He looked up at her, shyly. "I am well now," he said. "I will kill more rattlesnakes for you."

Lucia thought for a moment.

"Nonsense," she said, "from now on I will kill my own rattlesnakes–left and right."

Chance smiled.

William was looking up at her, puzzled.

"Yes," said Lucia grimly, "let them watch out for Lucia–let them watch out for Lucia Turner–" She looked at Chance, "–for Lucia Chance," she amended.

"You're crazy to hunt rattlesnakes," said William.

"Oh," said Lucia.

"You might get bit," said William.

"All right," said Lucia, confused, "then I won't hunt them."

"Good," said William Buckhorn. Then he added, "I won't either."

"Good," said Lucia.

"But can I have the rattles back?" asked William.

"Yes," said Lucia. She recalled that the baking-powder cans behind the soddy had still been there.

"Thank you," said William, and then turned and went back to his parents.

"Well," said McLaughlin, "what about it, Chance?"

Chance regarded the Indians; naturally his eyes sought out the Hunkpapa among them; with them he had ridden; he had been with them when they had fought; he had, in his way, shared their struggle, their defeat; with them he had found food, shelter and friendship; among them he had won the woman he loved.

Near the front of the Indians, astride their ponies, were Old Bear, Running Horse and Winona.

"Medicine Gun!" shouted Old Bear proudly, lifting his right hand in greeting.

"Old Bear," said Chance, returning the sign.

Running Horse walked his pony to Chance. He pointed back to Winona, happily, who shyly dropped her head. "The Hunkpapa do not die," he said.

"No," said Chance, "the Hunkpapa do not die."

He wondered if the child would be Totter's or Running Horse's; somehow it did not matter all that much; the important thing was the child, that the woman was bearing within her promise and life. About Lucia he did not yet know. It was possible, of course, that his first child would be Drum's. He could imagine speaking to the boy one day, "Yes, I knew your father; he was by the mixings of blood my brother; I killed him."

"No," said Chance to Running Horse, "the Hunkpapa–the people of Sitting Bull and Old Bear and Running Horse and Drum-do not die."

He put his arm about Lucia, happy and strong in her love and nearness.

"You know you must stay," she said.

"You might have told me," said Chance.

"It wouldn't have been a surprise," she said.

"You promised to be a good squaw," Chance reminded her.

"I shall make an excellent squaw," insisted Lucia. "It is also my intention," she said, "when you get around to asking me–to make an excellent wife."

"Marry me," said Chance.

"Say please," said Lucia.

"Please," said Chance.

"Pretty please," teased Lucia.

Chance decided, definitely, it would not be indecent, not at all, to spank a fully grown woman, especially a wench that deserved it like Lucia Turner, especially not if she were your wife, especially not if you could finish it up by removing her clothes and dropping her on the nearest bed.

"Nonsense," said Chance.

"All right," said Lucia, "I'll marry you anyway."

"Good," said Chance.

"Not that I have any choice," she said.

"Why not?" asked Chance.

"You didn't ask me like a true gentleman," she said, "you just said 'Marry me.'"

"So?" asked Chance.

"I must do what I'm told," said Lucia.

"Why is that?" asked Chance.

"Because," responded Lucia loftily, "I am an excellent squaw." She looked at him archly. "You have not forgotten, have you?"

Chance looked about, confused. The Indians were watching him. McLaughlin seemed puzzled. The colonel was looking off somewhere, studying cloud formations.

"Please, Lucia," whispered Chance.

"Have you forgotten?" demanded Lucia, one eyebrow quite high.

He kissed her to silence. "No," he mumbled, "excellent–excellent."

"Good rifle, good horse, good woman," Lucia was mumbling into his teeth.

"Please shut up," said Chance.

"Later," said Lucia breathlessly. "Please later."

"Pretty please," mumbled Chance.

"Pretty pretty pretty pretty please," said Lucia.

Mr. McLaughlin coughed rather loudly, twice, the second cough somewhat louder than even the first.

Chance disengaged Lucia's arms from his neck, which he had to do again.

"Well, Chance?" asked McLaughlin. "The proposition stands. What about it?"

Lucia was looking up, at him.

"We want you here," said the colonel. He gestured to the gathered Indians. "They want you here–Medicine Gun."

Chance smiled.

"My fiancé," Lucia was saying, "is leaving immediately for California."

"Lucia, will you please shut up," said Chance.

"Certainly," said Lucia.

"You will stay with us, won't you?" asked McLaughlin.

"My Brother," said Running Horse, "you will not leave us?"

Chance looked at the young Indian.

"No," said Chance. "I will stay. You are my people."

McLaughlin was shaking his hand, and the colonel, and Lucia kissed him; the Indians were shouting; they stamped their feet and crowded about him, to touch and hold him.

Chance felt Lucia's lips against his cheek; she was crying; her warmth was marvelous in his arms; her happiness.

It was good, Chance decided, it was good.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

 

In the spring the grass came as usual to Standing Rock, thrusting itself up green between the melting snow and the black earth. The prairie became sweet and flowed with grass and wind. The Grand River, swollen in its banks, rushed its cold, muddy waters downstream to the wide Missouri.

The Messiah had not come and the Ghost Dance was only a memory of the Sioux.

On an April Sunday, a day the white men called Easter, Old Bear, a chief of the Hunkpapa, rode his pony across the sweet-smelling spring prairies.

He had not ridden very far when he stopped his pony and dismounted. Heavy and sharp in the damp earth was the print of a hoof, wide, deep and fresh. Old Bear knelt beside the print and bent close, inhaling even the smell of the earth in which the print lay. His heart leaped. In many years he had not seen such a print. It was the print of a buffalo. Most likely the animal had drifted south from Canada, separated or driven from its herd; probably for days it had been browsing southward across the North Dakota prairie; at last it had come to Standing Rock.

Old Bear began to follow the sign. He sang softly to himself as he rode, an old buffalo hunting song. His right hand carried his unstrung bow. The quiver at his side held four hawk-feathered arrows and one long, fine arrow, an eagle-feathered buffalo arrow which Old Bear had been saving for many years.

Toward noon his eye found a place where the buffalo had rubbed its back on an outcropping of stone. Old Bear trembled as he looked at the stone. Caught in the chinks of rock and fallen to the grass, here and there, were coarse hairs from the animal. These hairs were white. Old Bear had found, at last, the trail of the white buffalo, the Medicine Buffalo. He had seen the old robes that proved such animals existed, but he had never spoken to a man who had seen one alive.

Without stopping to eat or drink, Old Bear urged his pony ahead in the hunt. At last, near dusk, he saw the animal shambling along in front of him. It was a thin, shaggy buffalo, an old animal, a bull, one ready to die. It didn't hear him nor did it smell him.

Old Bear, heart pounding, strung his bow quickly; he fitted the long buffalo arrow to the string.

Trembling, Old Bear edged his pony close to the old animal, until they were side by side.