by John Norman
Chance watched while Old Bear and Big Foot rode slowly out to meet the commander of the cavalry forces.
When the chiefs returned they told the braves to put away their weapons. The white man had come to go with them to Pine Ridge. There was to be no fighting. This pleased most of the warriors, who had little inclination to fight with an enemy four times as strong, particularly with one's starving women and children at one's back. Some of the men, the younger ones, like Drum, urged fighting, but they received for their show of bravery only the passive stares of the older men.
Chance melted in with the Indians, pulling the blanket more about his shoulders. He had wanted to go only as far as Wounded Knee and pull out before any soldiers arrived.
Old Bear rode through the ranks to Chance. He paused before him, his eyes sad. "There are men with the Long Knives who want to know if a white man is with us," he said. "They want to find such a man."
"What did you tell them?" asked Chance.
"I told them," said Old Bear, "that we are going to Pine Ridge and that white men are the business of white men."
"What did they say to that?" asked Chance.
"They want to look for you," said Old Bear. "But I told them it would not be good. There are young men too ready to fight."
"Thanks," said Chance.
Old Bear looked at him, the trace of a smile cracking the leather of his face. "I did not lie, Medicine Gun," he said.
Chance nodded, looking to where Drum and his braves were shifting on their horses, an angry knot of young warriors, glaring and shaking their rifles at the soldiers.
Drum rode a way into the prairie toward the soldiers, and then rode back. He did this twice, holding his rifle over his head, taunting them in Sioux. Then he returned to his young men. Chance guessed that Drum and his braves would not accompany the march to Pine Ridge, not if they could help it.
"Tonight," said Old Bear to Chance, "it will be hard to leave camp because the guard will be heavy. Tomorrow night, near Pine Ridge, maybe the Long Knives will not watch so close."
"All right," said Chance. "I'll wait, and move out when I can."
He hoped there would be an opportunity.
Chance looked out toward the encircling cavalry.
Suddenly among them he spotted the brown coat of a civilian. Something about the shape of the man and his carriage in the saddle told Chance it was Grawson. The man was putting something back in his saddlebags, possibly a pair of binoculars.
"He has seen you," said Running Horse.
After a while, the long lines of Sioux began to move again, and Chance, wrapped in his blanket against the cold, rubbing and blowing on his hands to keep the fingers flexible, rode with them.
"Where do we camp tonight?" asked Chance.
"Wounded Knee," said Running Horse.
* * *
In the camp of the soldiers, corporals went from bundle to bundle, shaking them awake.
This morning, even before reveille, they would be awake and ready for action.
The soldiers stirred, grumbling out of their damp blankets, cursing between chattering teeth, pulling the stiff cold leather of their boots over their wool stockings. When the last buckles were fixed and the last greatcoat was buttoned, the troops massed for formation.
Then reveille cut the morning like a saber.
The announcement of the bugle was not lost on the Sioux, most of whom had been lying awake, their weapons wrapped inside their blankets to keep the trigger housings from stiffening. The white men had oil for their guns, but the Sioux used marrow and grease, and the warmth of their own flesh.
Chance parted the flaps of the crowded lodge he had shared with Running Horse, Winona, and a Minneconjou family. He stared out across the brown grass at the blue dots that formed rectangles in the distance. The bugle sounded again, spearing its notes clearly and quickly to his ear. "Roll call," he thought. Next it would be mess call. Chance wished he had some of that black coffee that Running Horse called black medicine. He could go for some now. The last coffee he had had was at the Carters', where Lucia was sleeping now, warm in her blankets, with her hair soft over her cottoned shoulders.
Chance had dreamed of her last night but the dream had not been a good one.
His stomach still felt cold this morning.
In this dream he had gone to California as he and Lucia had planned, and then he had sent for her, but she had not responded to his letter, she had not come to join him.
He had returned for her for some reason to the Carter soddy but it had been gone.
The prairie had been empty of everything but the wind and the loneliness.
He remembered how she had called to him when he had left the soddy, and how frightened her voice had been, as though she might never see him again.
"Lucia!" he had called, starting out of his sleep.
Running Horse had been sitting cross-legged near the side of the lodge, softly clicking the trigger on his rifle to keep it pliant in the cold.
"It was only a dream," Chance had said.
Running Horse had said nothing but had continued to work the trigger of the weapon.
Chance, wanting to, had told Running Horse the dream.
Running Horse moved the bolt of his rifle back and forth twice. "My heart is heavy for you," he said.
"It's only a dream," Chance said.
Running Horse loaded his weapon. "It is not a good dream," he said.
"It's only a dream," Chance repeated.
Running Horse looked down at the bolt of his rifle, not meeting his eyes.
Damn, thought Chance, damn these damn Indians and their medicine, and their dances, and their superstitions.
"It's only a dream," said Chance.
Without looking at him, Running Horse had placed his rifle inside his blanket, holding it against his body. Chance could see the steel barrel in the light of the dawn that touched the interior of the tepee, falling through the tattered smoke hole at the juncture of the poles over their head. Winona had stirred in her blanket beside Running Horse and his hand had gently folded a corner of the blanket about her shoulders. The other Indians in the lodge, an old man, his two wives and a grandson, in that early hour, had been asleep, or lying quietly, their eyes closed, giving no sign they might be awake. Chance had judged from their breathing they were asleep.
He had looked again at Running Horse.
Running Horse had then lifted his head and looked at him, regarding him sadly. "My heart is heavy for you," he had said.
Shortly after reveille had sounded the Indians had emerged from their lodges and had begun the routines of the camp, urinating, building their fires, starting to prepare their food, as though the nearest soldier might be miles away in bivouac at Pine Ridge.
But for all the apparent unconcern of the Indians nothing the soldiers did escaped their notice, least of all the placement of four rapid-firing Hotchkiss machine guns that had been wheeled into position on a small ridge overlooking the camp. They were pointed downward into the midst of the lodges. If their spraying, sweeping fire were initiated, Chance surmised, it would take only a matter of a minute or so to lay bullets into almost every square yard of the camp.
Had it not been for the fact that the guns were manned by disciplined troops, undoubtedly serving under experienced officers, Chance would have been decidedly uneasy. As it was he supposed the weapons might have been placed as they were almost as a matter of customary field procedure. Beyond this Chance recognized that the commander of the troops, if an intelligent officer, could not be expected to refuse to take serious precautions when dealing with a large number of Indians, many of whom were armed and some of whom might still be hostile. He supposed that he himself in a similar situation, if he had had the weaponry, might have been tempted to deploy it similarly. On the other hand, he, had he commanded the troops, would have been worried somewhat about the effect the sight of the guns might have on the Indians. They might, for example, not understanding the motives of the milit
ary, assume, rather like Big Foot's band had assumed several days ago, that they were in danger of being attacked. Big Foot, of course, had fled, because he could; but here there seemed to be no place to which one might flee; there wasn't even sufficient cover; so the likely alternative here might seem to be to fight, perhaps, tragically, even to attack first.
But Chance supposed that one, in such situations, must rely on the good judgment of the military, and trust it, and so he did.
After all this sort of thing was their business, not his.
Chance was aware of Running Horse beside him. He, too, was watching the guns, their crews.
"Don't worry," said Chance. "It's simply a matter of military precaution."
Running Horse said nothing.
"They do that sort of thing," said Chance, "almost without thinking about it. It's just what soldiers do. Put up guns, have drills. It's like a parade."
Running Horse looked at him.
"The United States Army," said Chance, a bit irritably, "doesn't go about shooting down innocent people."
"Look," said Running Horse, pointing into the distance.
Chance looked closely. He could see horses, in dozens of groups of five or six, being led away from the soldiers' camp, out into the prairie. Chance was puzzled. If the soldiers were going to ride those horses to escort the Indians to the agency what was the point of leading them out into the prairie, taking them several hundred yards away?
"Why are they taking the horses away?" asked Running Horse.
"I don't know," said Chance.
"Why would you take horses away?" asked Running Horse.
"I don't know," said Chance.
"I would take them away," said Running Horse, "so they would not be killed, so they would not be in the way when people shoot."
"Those men," said Chance, "are United States soldiers." Even to Chance what he said sounded a bit naive, in the face of the movement of the horses. "United States soldiers," he said, asserting it as if it might almost be on act of faith, "do not attack without reason."
Running Horse watched for a bit longer. Then he turned to Chance and said, "Maybe they will find a reason."
Drum, an eagle feather high in his hair, stepped up to Running Horse and Chance. "I have come to Wounded Knee," he said, "for this morning." He pointed to the guns on the ridge. "Those are guns of many rifles," he said. "Now we must fight or we will all be killed." Then he added, "Old Bear was a fool to trust Long Knives."
Drum turned abruptly and left, beginning to move about the camp, urging the warriors to be ready to fight.
Already in the camp several of the warriors had begun to chant their death song.
The squaws gathered the children together, holding them closely.
The children watched the distant soldiers and the guns with curiosity.
Running Horse turned to Chance. "You are my brother," he said simply. "It has made my heart glad."
Chance looked at the young Indian. "You, too, are my brother," he said. "And, too, it has made my heart glad."
Running Horse and Chance now watched four riders approach the camp. Instinctively, Chance drew the Indian blanket more about his shoulders.
The first man was an army officer, of a rank that Chance could not make out at the distance. He was followed by two troopers, one of whom held a flag of truce. The fourth man, a large man, wore a heavy, brown, fur-collared mackinaw coat; leather gloves; and a fur cap with its earflaps turned down and tied under the chin. It was Grawson.
At the edge of the camp these men met Big Foot and Old Bear.
Chance could watch them talk, and he could see that the officer was impatient, judging from the way his white-gloved hands jerked as he talked. He pointed several times to the guns on the ridge.
Behind the officer, Grawson casually surveyed the camp until, from a distance of about seventy-five yards, he made out Chance. Then the big body in the brown coat, like a satisfied bear, seemed to relax on the horse, almost somnolently.
Meanwhile the soldiers of the Seventh, afoot, were rapidly deploying in a hollow square about the camp, taking advantage of the flag of truce.
Chance was not a military man, but even to him it looked a bit stupid, what was going on. The soldiers were extending their lines very thinly and, if fighting started, they would catch each other in their own cross fire. Nonetheless, whatever happened, of course, the Indians would be caught in the middle. Chance supposed that the officer in charge of the troops was not counting on any trouble. Chance found that reassuring, at any rate. He wondered if the officer understood the presence of men in the Indian camp like Drum, who could never forget that they were the sons of men such as Kills-His-Horse and in whose hair had been fixed, as of only days, the feathers of eagles.
Naturally the Indians were well aware that while the parley was taking place the Long Knives had moved into position.
The soldiers had removed their cumbersome greatcoats and stood shivering in their blue campaign uniforms, their rifles at the ready.
Chance looked at the officer again, the man talking to Big Foot and Old Bear. The carriage of his body, the motions of his hands, suggested the mien of a conqueror addressing the servile vanquished.
Chance looked at the surrounding soldiers, seeing here and there faces of hate, of anticipation, of fear, of distrust, but mostly they looked like simple men anywhere look, like the faces of men on any street in any town, clerks, carpenters, farmers, teamsters, coopers, smiths, cartwrights, merchants, barbers, just men.
They all looked cold.
Here and there one of them tucked his rifle under his arm and blew on his hands, stamping his feet and cursing to himself. "Goddam it's cold," Chance heard one of them mutter, and Chance agreed with him.
A Sioux child, a small boy with unbraided hair that hung to his waist, walked timidly over to one of the soldiers, his eyes fastened on one of the brass buttons on the man's jacket.
Slowly the boy put out his finger and touched the button. The trooper gently shooed him away. The little boy turned to go, looked at the trooper again, then smiled and ran back to his mother.
Big Foot and Old Bear now turned to face the Sioux.
As they did so, the officer and his party, the parley ended, withdrew rapidly, the hoofs of their horses sounding on the frozen prairie.
The message which Big Foot and Old Bear communicated to their people was simple.
The leader of the Long Knives had ordered the Sioux to turn in their weapons. They must give up their guns, after which the march to Pine Ridge would resume.
A wave of protest swept through the Indians. They supposed that it had been intended simply that they were to go directly to Pine Ridge. They were supposed to see, as they had understood, the agent at Pine Ridge, who was not a Long Knife, and get rations for their families, and be at peace with the Great White Father. Now the Long Knives, out on the open prairie, where the men of the Great White Father in Washington could not see, were going to take away their guns. After this, what would they do, these Long Knives of the Seventh Cavalry, some of whom had lost friends with Long Hair in the unavenged defeat on the Little Big Horn many snows ago?
The Indians looked at the four guns on the ridge.
Some of the squaws began to keen, as if wailing for their dead.
"Do not give up your guns," called Drum, his fierce eyes blazing with excitement.
"Be quiet," said Old Bear.
There shortly appeared in the camp a detail of twelve men, led by a sergeant, a heavy, swaggering man, authoritative, not well shaven, with an open holster, who stumbled a bit as he walked, glaring about himself to the left and the right at the silent Indians.
He stopped and, with the heel of a boot, scratched a large, irregular circle in the dirt.
"Bring out yer weapons and put 'em in a pile," called the sergeant, pointing to the center of the circle he had drawn on the ground.
Drum turned to the Sioux. "They will kill us when we have no guns," he said.
Old Bear called out to the Sioux. "Give up your rifles," he said.
Several of the Minneconjou clustered there looked past Old Bear to Big Foot, who stood nearby leaning on one of his wives. The chief could hardly breathe. His eyes were half shut, marked with fever. Weakly he nodded his assent to the command of Old Bear.
Drum, with two of his young men, went into a nearby lodge, and came out with two rusty rifles, which they contemptuously threw into the dirt circle. The gesture was not hard to understand. The Sioux were forcing no issue, but did not intend to disarm themselves. If the white men were intelligent they would accept this token.
The sergeant in charge of the detail blinked and glowered at the Indians. "You goddam Injuns," he yelled, "had better turn in your guns goddam quick or you're going to be all goddam dead!"
Chance's heart sunk.
He was not close but he guessed the sergeant might be drunk, literally. It was not an easy thing to do, to walk into a camp of frightened, angry Indians, and ask them to give up their only means of defending themselves in the presence of armed, blood foes. The sergeant, Chance guessed, might well be drunk. How else would they have gotten a volunteer to walk into the Sioux camp and make that demand? That was the officer's job, wasn't it? No, Chance decided, officers, at least those with sufficient seniority, were for looking through binoculars. Commanding from interior lines, it was called. But, drunk or not, the sergeant was foul and incoherent. The Indians were staring back at him as he shouted at them, and stopped to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, and then shouted some more, making his demand, insulting them.
Several of the Indians, of course, could understand English. And all of them, whether or not they could have been said in any meaningful sense to understand the language or not, were clear that this white man was cursing them, abusing them, and that he was doing this before their wives and children.
Old Bear was listening, apparently impassively, but Chance sensed that the old man was enraged.