Ghost Dance

by John Norman

  The blue square of surrounding soldiers, nearly five hundred strong, shifted uneasily.

  Old Bear shut his eyes for a moment and seemed almost to waver with fury, but then he opened his eyes, and lifted his hands to his people. His voice almost broke. "Give up your rifles," he called out, as loudly, as calmly, as he could.

  "You there!" bawled the sergeant, jabbing his short finger at Drum, who was standing conspicuously a bit in front of the other Indians. "You gotta gun under that blanket! Give it to me!"

  "Come and take it," said Drum.

  "Do not take the gun," said Old Bear.

  The sergeant hesitated an instant but then, sensible of the eyes of his men behind him, the troops beyond, the Indians gathered about, and the young man challenging him, stalked over to Drum and with both hands he tore open Drum's blanket, to find the muzzle of Drum's rifle, at a high angle, suddenly under his chin. Drum's hand, which was low, was on the trigger.

  The sergeant's face went white and if he had been drunk before it was now a sober man that was looking down the barrel of Drum's weapon.

  "Take the gun," said Drum.

  "Do not take the gun," said Old Bear.

  Desperately the sergeant made a sudden move to knock the rifle aside, and Drum simultaneously pulled the trigger and the sergeant stood there for a second oddly leaning backward in a noise his hat blown off with the top of his skull, and then fell backward, sprawling in the dust, and the four lines of the blue square almost at the same time opened fire.

  Warriors threw off their blankets blazing away with hidden rifles. Some of them used bows and arrows. Several charged the soldiers across the open ground with knives and hatchets. The quiet, cold December morning suddenly shattered in the staccato cough of gunfire and the shrieks of human beings who had not expected to die.

  Chance threw himself to the ground about the same time the cross fire from the lines of soldiers cut through the camp. He discovered, not remembering drawing it, his weapon in his hand. He saw soldiers to his left falling, struck by the bullets of their comrades across the camp. Fighting bodies broiled about him. A Minneconjou, about forty years old, fell near him, a groping hand caught in his own intestines, loosed by the slash of a bayonet. Chance saw Big Foot, blankets wet with blood, tottering and stumbling and then falling, and saw one of his wives, caught in the same burst of fire, fall across his body. He heard the frightened scream of a child pierce the shouts and cries for a second. One Hunkpapa brave was mounted and, hanging low on the neck of his pony, galloped through the fighting. He made it past the camp when the four Hotchkiss machine guns opened up, leaving both the horse and its rider rolling tattered in the grass.

  Thank God, thought Chance, they don't dare fire the guns into the camp. Everywhere soldiers and Indians struggled, rolling in the dirt, slashing at each other, grappling, firing when they could, cursing. There were probably twice as many soldiers as Indians altogether, and the soldiers outnumbered the warriors, Chance guessed, about four to one.

  Chance saw a frenzied Minneconjou drawing a bead on him, and would never forget the wild eye glinting down the carbine sight, and Chance raised his arm to fire at the man, but before he could fire saw the man move as though knocked to one side by an invisible assailant, struck in the side of the head by a soldier's bullet.

  The soldier grinned at Chance, shoving another bullet into his gun. He held up three fingers. You sonofabitch, thought Chance, of the man who had saved his life. Then the man was looking for another target.

  A woman's shriek rang out near him.

  A dozen feet to his right, soldiers were holding squaws and children while a private, one after the other, was thrusting his bayonet through their bodies.

  Chance leaped to his feet and raced through the fierce tangle of fighting bodies, just as the child, the small boy, who had smiled at the brass button of a soldier a few minutes before, was kicked from the wet end of the bayonet.

  Chance seized the soldier by the collar and spun him around smashing the butt of his Colt in the man's teeth, and the fellow, stunned, stood there and whimpered, and Chance tore away his rifle and threw it down, and then with his weapon covered the other soldiers.

  "Turn them loose," said Chance, "all of them, or I'll kill you."

  The soldiers, puzzled, not understanding, hesitated.

  Suddenly he noticed that one of the men held Winona. He swung his gun on the man. "All right," he said, "you die first."

  The man pushed Winona away from him and she scurried away.

  One by one, under the barrel of Chance's gun, the soldiers released their prizes.

  The squaws and children ran, some of them falling only a moment later in the fighting.

  "What in hell do you think you're doing?" asked one of the soldiers.

  "Who are you?" asked another.

  "You're crazy, Mister," said another.

  "You're a white man, ain't you," said another.

  The man whom Chance had struck in the teeth was shaking his head and feeling his mouth with his right hand, running his finger over the broken teeth in his face. "Why'd you hit me?" he asked, and Chance, to his horror, knew that the man did not know.

  Chance turned away, looking for Running Horse.

  Instead he caught sight of Drum, his hatchet gone, himself red with blood and exultant, leaping on the back of a trooper, plunging his knife into the man's face and neck. Chance shook his head to get rid of the sight. Then he saw, to one side, Running Horse, who fired his weapon through the smoke and the moving bodies, bringing down a trooper who was aiming after a running squaw. As some of the Indians, mostly women and children, made it to the open prairie, the Hotchkiss guns opened up again, leaving them like flowers scattered on the grass.

  The battle had broken up into a stew of small, fierce knots. It was only a matter of time now. Again the machine guns opened up, this time on the near end of the camp, the bullets falling like metal rain into a group of women and children who huddled there. In another part of the camp soldiers had begun to set fire to the lodges. The heavy tide of numbers and equipment had never left the ultimate issue of the battle in doubt, and the inevitabilities of the situation were even now moving swiftly to their relentless conclusion. Where they could the Sioux fled, some warriors standing their ground to cover the retreat of their comrades, then even these began to turn and run, if they had not already fallen. As if angered that anything might escape the closely woven net of death the Hotchkiss guns kept up alternating bursts of fire, pouring shells here and there about the camp and near it where Indians attempted to escape. At the rear of the camp Chance saw several warriors, led by Drum and Old Bear, fighting side by side, trying to shield the flight of women and children, some of the children in arms, from the camp. Most of these it seemed, once they cleared the camp, fell under the sharp, irregular rhythms of the guns on the ridge.

  Some of the women would not leave and desperately, under fire, they brought screaming, pawing horses to their warriors, some of the women pulling as many as three or four of the frightened, snorting animals. Chance saw a horse hit in the flank with a bullet sink to its rear legs, as if comically sitting, then regain its legs and break away from the squaw with a shake of his head and gallop squeaking out into the prairie, starting to turn in circles. Together in the confusion the braves and squaws mounted as best they could, a wild scattering of riders, and thundered from the camp, some sprawling from the horses in the fire of the guns on the ridge, others somehow making it away.

  Chance saw Drum and Old Bear among the escaping Indians. Chance was glad.

  He looked wildly about for Running Horse or Winona.

  Most of the Indians left now were wounded or fighting savagely, individuals not free to run, locked in place by the constraints of immediate combat.

  Chance ran to Running Horse, who suddenly swung his rifle on him to fire. Chance knocked the weapon aside. "Get out of here!" yelled Chance.

  Running Horse nodded.

  He began to back away afte
r Chance, spitting cartridges from his mouth one by one into his hand, shoving them in his rifle and firing.

  They moved slowly back through men fighting, each man intent on his own world, containing a single antagonist, red or white, a world that would not be divided between them, a tiny, sweating, horrifying world in which one of them must die and one live.

  They fought with hands, knives, hatchets, gouging, kicking, slashing.

  But of all these incidents Chance remembered one more clearly than any other.

  Running Horse actually backed into a trooper and when the man turned to fire, Chance had held his arm and said very quietly, "No, don't shoot," and the man had said, "All right," and hadn't Chance wondered afterwards about the strangeness of that. The man had obeyed him, he supposed, simply because he was white, and had sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Perhaps the man had supposed Running Horse was a scout or somehow attached to the command. But there hadn't been any Indians attached to the command. At any rate he hadn't shot, but had said "All right," and had turned elsewhere. Running Horse, too, hadn't attempted to fight with the man, when he saw Chance speak to him. Perhaps he assumed Chance knew him; perhaps he simply saw that the man was not going to fight him.

  Chance and Running Horse continued to work their way backward through the jostling, fierce tangles of hand-to-hand combat. The crack of gunfire made their ears numb; the acrid smoke of expended cartridges stung their nose and eyes. Once a trooper turned and stumbled, falling into Chance's arms, and Chance put him down, seeing the man was dead. Another time a brave crumpled almost at his side, twisting, the cotton of his blue plaid shirt dark with powder burn, a wound in his side that had not yet begun to bleed.

  Together Running Horse and Chance kept moving, working their way step by step back toward the rear of the camp.

  We might make it, thought Chance wildly, we might make it.

  Some had escaped, Drum, Old Bear, others.

  We can make it, coursed through Chance's mind, we will make it.

  A pistol jabbed into Chance's ribs.

  "Drop your gun," said Lester Grawson.

  It seemed in that instant to Edward Chance that he had died.

  Numbly he dropped his weapon and Grawson, hatless and coatless, with his right boot, his eyes on Chance, not watching the ground, grinning, swept it a dozen feet away.

  Grawson's face was cut and his ear torn but Chance could see that he was pleased, mighty pleased. "God how I've waited," said Grawson.

  Chance lifted his hands.

  "Totter should be here," said Grawson, "but he's having too much fun over there." Grawson nodded to his right, toward the edge of camp where there were burning lodges. The screams of women carried through the smoky air.

  Grawson and Chance looked at one another, in their own world, lost by light years from the burning worlds about them.

  "I'm not waiting any longer," said Grawson.

  Chance saw Grawson's thumb click the hammer back on his weapon.

  Then Grawson's hand seemed to tighten.

  Running Horse, spinning around to look for Chance, saw Grawson covering him. Running Horse thrust his rifle into the back of Grawson's neck and pulled the trigger, but the cartridge, shoved in crookedly, jammed. Grawson grunted, startled, went white, turned to fire, but as he did so, Chance's hand caught his wrist. Running Horse smashed the stock of his rifle into the side of Grawson's head. The big man slumped to the ground. The young Indian put the rifle to Grawson's temple and pulled the trigger again, but the weapon still failed to fire.

  Chance grabbed the rifle from Running Horse and with the palm of his hand slapped free the jammed cartridge.

  A line of bullets, like a pattern of buttonholes, opened up the ground to the right of them. Somewhere some squaws and children were screaming. Near Chance's feet, he almost stumbled over him, lay an old man, his eyes opened, praying, his hands cupped over a bleeding chest. In the confusion the significance of the line of bullets suddenly became, like a flash of lightning, evident to Chance. The guns were firing directly into the camp, trying to pick out individual targets. The soldiers nearby, as startled as Chance, started yelling and cursing, and moving back.

  "Come on!" yelled Chance, and he, with Running Horse, turned and ran toward the back of the camp, where Drum and Old Bear and others had made good their escape.

  Suddenly it seemed to Chance that hell exploded under his feet and a hedge of dirt jumped up around him, marking the tracery of a burst from one of the Hotchkiss guns. A little girl, running to the left of them, threw out her hands and fell forward, two red dots on her back, one near the right shoulder and another near the small of her back. Chance seized Running Horse by the arm and dragged him to the ground, both of them falling behind the bodies of some three women who had fallen earlier to the guns. The bodies behind which they lay shook like bags of sand with the impact of the bullets splattering into them.

  Suddenly the firing of the guns stopped. "Soldiers in the line of fire!" yelled Chance. "Come on!"

  As one man he and Running Horse fled.

  A short burst of Hotchkiss fire ripped the ground behind them. They heard some startled shouts and curses.

  Chance and Running Horse were not more than fifty yards from the perimeter of the camp when they saw Winona running towards them, rifle shots kicking up the dust at her feet, holding the reins of three horses, Chance's, Running Horse's, and a third animal, frightened and riderless, which she had captured for herself in the confusion. In an instant Chance and Running Horse and Winona had mounted and had kicked their animals into a terrified gallop.

  Some shots followed them, sliding through the air over their heads with a distant crack and a sound like the passing of an insect.

  Here and there they saw other riders fleeing, all heading as if by instinct toward the Bad Lands.

  Most of the Indians who had fled on foot had run to Wounded Knee Creek, to hide in the brush and the icy water. They would be found there, most of them, and slain.

  In the distance, Chance heard the bugle's brave notes, sounding Boots and Saddles. The troopers were being recalled from the camp, to mount and follow. There was a sharp, in its way beautiful, sound in the notes of the bugle. It was a stirring call, thought Chance, that call Boots and Saddles, stirring.

  Chance, Running Horse and Winona urged their mounts from Wounded Knee, racing for the Bad Lands.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The troopers of the Seventh Cavalry, hot with the blood of massacre, methodically burned the camp and hunted survivors. Some of the troopers turned to pillaging, hiding souvenirs of the battle inside their jackets or boots. These they could sell later as mementos of the battle which they now realized had occurred, somewhat after the shooting was over, a battle to be known by the place where it had taken place, Wounded Knee, called for the creek nearby. Several of the soldiers jerked the clothing from fallen Indians, in particular the Ghost Shirts which would bring the highest prices. Some of these would eventually be purchased by museums. There seemed no point in leaving the loot to civilians who would most assuredly, sooner or later, like vultures, come to pick over the field. The spoils, such as they were, belonged, if to anyone, to the victors.

  As Chance, Winona and Running Horse urged their mounts over the prairie, they could look back and see columns of smoke ascending from the burning camp. The cold air kept the smoke pretty much together so it seemed the sky was stained with dark parallel bars. In the clear air they could hear the occasional gunshots that marked places and times where wounded Indians were found in the brush or among the bodies. There were no prisoners taken at Wounded Knee. It would take some time before complete discipline could be restored. By the time the troopers could be gathered from the massacre, reunited with their mounts and organized to follow up their victory, those Indians fortunate enough to be mounted would be scattered for miles over the prairie. Those on foot were less fortunate, of course, and several were killed, some as much as three miles from Wounded Knee.

/>   "We are safe now," said Running Horse, reining in his pony.

  The three riders slowed their mounts and turned to look back at the bars of smoke rising in the sky.

  "My people will not forget this place," said Running Horse.

  Chance saw that there were tears in the eyes of Winona.

  After a time Running Horse turned his pony north again, and Chance and Winona followed him.

  That night the first snow of the year fell, cutting off, for a time, any threat of pursuit. In the afternoon, as Chance, Running Horse and Winona made their way north toward the Bad Lands, the wind had gathered its strength and rushed to meet them, howling, cutting their faces, hurling itself like a lonely, whistling saber across the brown prairie. By dusk the wind carried in its train sleet, that forced the horses and their riders to shut their eyes, and when dark came, the white shrapnel of a blizzard pitted the night, screaming from the north, blurring the air with ice, numbing their hands and stiffening the leather of Chance's reins, the nose ropes of the Indian ponies. Chance had lost somewhere the blanket he had had at Wounded Knee; similarly neither Running Horse nor Winona had covering from the storm other than what they had worn that morning. Chance tried to consider how long they might live thus exposed in the storm. He could not consider the matter rationally for the buzzing of the white hornets about his ears, the jabbing of thousands of delicate snowflakes, each a frozen architecture of icy crystal, driven at high speed against his face and hands, pelting his body. The horses put down their heads, continually shifting to the left, trying to face away from the storm. The riders dismounted and, in single file, pulled the stumbling animals behind them, wading through snow already drifting high enough to cover the tops of Chance's boots.

  For an hour they continued to move north, into the blizzard, fighting it.

  "We'll freeze!" yelled Chance at the top of his voice, hoping Running Horse could hear him.

  "No," shouted Running Horse. "Keep moving! Do not stop!"