by John Norman
In the canyon the snow had been trampled down over a space about twenty-five yards wide, circling out from the leeward wall of the canyon. That wall was fringed with makeshift shelters, mostly contrived from blankets, sticks and brush.
Toward the center of the canyon was a large fire, lighting the walls of the canyon. It had already melted the snow back in a wide, damp circle. It was muddy near the fire. It was too large a fire for the uses of the camp. Chance judged, correctly, that it was a council or ceremonial fire, and the wood it fed on might have been carried, some of it, from as far as the Carter soddy.
About thirty-five Indians, few of them women and children, were gathered about the fire. The men were sitting on brush and blankets. The women and children stood behind them.
Most of the women wore the signs of mourning. They had cut their hair; their faces were smeared with dirt and their clothing had been torn. Some had cut open their cheeks and arms, and heavy blood clots marked the wounds that would become scars.
The children, Chance noticed, did not run about as Indian children normally did, busying themselves here and there, getting into whatever trouble they might find. Instead they stood by the women, clinging to them, afraid to let go.
He did not see Lucia; but he had heard her cry; she was somewhere here.
He must wait.
Chance hoped that more of the Indians might find their way across the prairie to this retreat, or others like it; he did not understand at that time how few Indians had escaped Wounded Knee.
At least there would be food in the camp, meat; Chance remembered that the Carter livestock had not been in evidence, what there had been of it.
Lucia was nowhere to be seen, but he had heard her cry; she was somewhere here.
He did not like to look at the eyes of the children.
He must wait.
Old Bear sat a little forward of most of the warriors, his eyes staring into the fire, not really seeing it.
Chance noted that Drum, too, was not present, nor any of the young warriors who habitually followed him.
Perhaps Lucia was with Drum, and his men.
Chance's fists clenched.
Then he saw, suddenly, revoltingly, in a clear place near the fire, scalps, hair and skin, heaped on the ground. Lucia had screamed. It was a dark, loose pile, grisly, matted, stained with brownish reds, some of the hair stiff, the whole pile rather damp from the mud and snow, droplets glistening here and there on it, lying in the mud near the fire. Many scalps. More, Chance noted, than those of the Carters alone. Lucia. She had screamed. I heard her. No. None of the scalps blond. None blond. None. Not blond. And Chance took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly, his hands trembling. Lucia, he told himself, is still alive.
Old Bear stood to welcome Winona.
She went to him, standing before him, and Chance could see that the old man was happy beyond happiness, though hardly did his expression change. "Huh!" he said to her. Winona inclined her head to him, gently. "Huh!" said Old Bear again, and motioned for her to go and stand with the other women, and the children, which she did.
Running Horse took his seat as a warrior, a bit behind Old Bear. The young Indian motioned for Chance to sit beside him. None of the braves objected to Chance taking that place. Drum was gone, and his young men, and the rest of the Hunkpapa, or most of them, had long ago come to accept Chance as a part of their camp; he was Medicine Gun; even the Minneconjou who were there did not protest his presence, remembering him from before, from the camp before the march, from the march, from Wounded Knee. Indeed, though Chance did not understand it at the time, the fact that he had been at Wounded Knee, with them, was important to these people. They would say to one another, in years afterward, when a child might ask, or a stranger, "Yes, Medicine Gun, he was with us at Wounded Knee."
"Welcome, Medicine Gun," said Old Bear.
Chance nodded, sitting cross-legged near the chief. "Where is Drum?" he asked, as casually as he could manage.
"You were followed by two men," said Old Bear. "Drum has gone to get them." The old man had spoken simply, as though what he had said had been a matter of course.
"Drum didn't pass us," said Chance.
"He passed you," said Old Bear.
Chance looked at Running Horse. The young Indian smiled. "Yes, my Brother," he said, "it is true."
"We led someone into a trap?" asked Chance.
"Yes," said Old Bear.
There was little doubt in Chance's mind who the two men who had followed would be.
The beat of the tom-tom, incessant, seemed to throb in his bones and flesh.
He felt a strange mixture of swift, unclear, irresistible emotions, pleasure, cruelty, pity, relief, apprehension, confusion, difficulty.
Somehow, in a moment, perhaps paradoxically, he found himself hoping that Totter and Grawson might escape; he knew they would not.
Chance did not envy a man the death which the Sioux might contrive.
Suddenly the tom-tom stopped.
The silence, save for the noise of the fire, startled Chance.
He followed the eyes of the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou to the opening of a blanket shelter stretched between sticks at the foot of the rock wall to his right.
A thin Hunkpapa woman, with a sharp stick, her narrow face disfigured with four mourning wounds, prodded a wretched, stumbling figure from the shelter, a slim, blond girl who fell in the snow.
Chance felt the hand of Running Horse tight on his arm.
The thin woman jabbed the girl twice with the stick and then, using it as a club, struck her several times across the shoulders as she struggled to rise.
Lucia Turner now stood on her feet, but unsteadily, her hands reaching out, trying to keep from falling again.
Her feet had been bound, Chance surmised; it was hard for her to walk.
Lucia was looking at the fire.
Her eyes were wide with fear.
She stood still in the snow, trembling, rubbing with numb, stiff fingers the bruised flesh of her wrists. Chance could see, clearly visible against the white skin, the deep, red burns of rawhide strands.
She had been put in Indian clothing, moccasins and a dress of deerskin. Her hair had been braided behind her back, tied with two strings of cheap glass beads. Chance judged she wore nothing beneath the deerskin. She had not even a blanket to clutch about herself. There probably weren't enough blankets even for the Indians.
The girl shuddered, though whether from fear or cold, or both, Chance did not know.
He wondered if the girl had been brought out to be killed.
Neither of them knew.
They will have to kill both of us, thought Chance, both.
The thin woman struck Lucia again across the back with the stick, sharply, viciously, but Lucia did not cry out. Then the woman, thrusting with the stick, prodded her toward the fire before the men.
Lucia did not cry, and Chance felt proud of her for that.
He also felt helpless.
When Lucia stumbled into the circle of firelight, she saw Chance.
She seemed stunned; her lips moved as though to say his name; then she looked away; that she might not appear to know him; that she might not involve him in whatever might happen to her.
She is magnificent, thought Chance. I love her.
He regarded her, his face expressionless, giving no sign of recognition.
Old Bear addressed the girl. "White Woman," said he, "how did you come here?"
Lucia looked at him. Old Bear knew this as well as she. The thin woman jabbed Lucia sharply with the stick. "I was brought here," she said.
"How were you brought here?" asked Old Bear sternly.
Lucia looked at him, bewildered.
"Say it," said Old Bear.
"They came," said Lucia, trembling. "They killed my friends. They burned the house."
"How did you come here?" demanded Old Bear.
"I didn't want to come here!" cried Lucia.
"How did you
come here?" demanded Old Bear.
"On foot," said Lucia. "My hands were tied behind my back. A rope was put on my throat."
"Huh!" said Old Bear, satisfied.
Chance then understood that Lucia was being made to understand, and acknowledge the simple fact of her capture, and what this meant; that her life had been spared but that she was a prisoner; and that her life was in the hands of the Sioux, to whom she now belonged.
"On the rope of a warrior," said Old Bear.
"Yes," said Lucia.
"What warrior?" asked Old Bear.
Lucia dropped her head. "Drum," she said, "the son of Kills-His-Horse."
"You are the squaw of Drum," said Old Bear.
"That cannot be," said Chance simply.
A chorus of surprise greeted this announcement.
Old Bear looked at Chance, puzzled. "Why?" he asked.
"She is my woman," said Chance.
Old Bear was evidently startled. "I did not know this," he said.
He looked at Lucia.
"Yes," said Lucia softly. "I am his woman."
At that moment Chance stood ready to fight the entire Sioux nation.
Old Bear looked at Chance. "One blanket?" he asked.
Chance recalled the Carter soddy. "Yes," he said, "one blanket."
Lucia dropped her head.
Suddenly the thin woman with the stick screamed shrilly.
"She is the woman of Drum! I saw him bring her to the camp! Medicine Gun is white! He lies! They talk with the tongues of snakes to save each other!"
"My Brother, Medicine Gun," said Running Horse, "does not lie."
The thin woman recoiled, as if she had been stung with a whip. "Short Hair!" she hissed.
The voice of Running Horse did not rise, nor show emotion. He said, "I have danced the Sun Dance; I have smoked with Sitting Bull; I have fought at Grand River; I have fought at Wounded Knee." Then he looked at her and said, "Go take your place with the women."
The thin woman said nothing, but retreated sullenly to stand among the other women, and the children.
Old Bear looked at Chance. "It is not good," he said. "Drum wants the yellow-haired woman."
"He may not have her," said Chance. "She is mine."
"Drum," said Old Bear, "is the son of Kills-His-Horse. By birth and blood he is Hunkpapa."
"Not by birth," said Chance, "but by the blood of Running Horse, my Brother, I too am Hunkpapa."
"In the way of the Hunkpapa," said Old Bear, "the woman belongs to the warrior who takes her."
"That is true," said Chance, "but in the way of the Hunkpapa one warrior does not steal from another warrior."
Old Bear looked at him. "Drum will fight," he said.
"I too will fight," said Chance.
Old Bear looked into the fire, thoughtfully. "It is not good," he said.
"It must be, Father of the Hunkpapa," said Chance. "I am sorry."
Old Bear looked up at Lucia. "Squaw," said he.
Lucia's lower lip trembled. "Yes," she said.
"Warriors will fight for you," said Old Bear. "One will die."
Lucia looked at Chance, frightened. "No," she said.
"Be silent," said Chance.
Lucia was silent. She knew that if she were his woman, she must obey him. He, though he were white, was in his way Hunkpapa, and she knew herself, by capture, to be a squaw of that people, and they would expect her to obey him, as she must Drum, or any other whose squaw she might be.
Old Bear looked at Lucia steadily, closely, watching her eyes. Then the old Indian pointed to Chance. "In the Hunkpapa this is Medicine Gun," he said.
"I know," said Lucia. Chance had told her of his Indian name when they had visited, for hours, in those precious days at the Carter soddy.
"If Medicine Gun is not killed," asked Old Bear, "will you be a good squaw to him?"
Lucia dropped her head. Perhaps in spite of her peril she smiled a bit, somewhere in her heart, she, Lucia Turner, who had held in the East the radical opinions of the most advanced women, extending even to the right to vote, she who had been in her way a heretical, militant outpost of feminism on Standing Rock, who had waged her one-woman war to raise the status of her sister, red or white. "Yes," she said, head down, "I will try to be a good squaw to him."
Chance, well aware of Lucia's unusual opinions and political convictions, smiled too, though the smile could not be read on his face. He recalled how he had enjoyed teasing Lucia on such matters, to see her flush and defend herself, and marshal her arguments.
This was lost of course on Old Bear. "Try?" asked Old Bear, sternly.
Lucia looked at Chance, shyly. "I will be a good squaw to you," she said.
Suddenly Lucia, for a moment, was afraid of Chance. He sat so quietly, giving no sign of his feelings. She asked herself suddenly what she knew of this man, with whom she had somehow desperately fallen in love. He stayed with the Sioux. He might be for all she knew more Indian than white. He was perhaps a renegade. It suddenly crossed her mind that this man might indeed keep her and use her as simply that, his squaw. Then even this alternative did not frighten her. Do with me what you please, Edward Chance, she thought. Yours. I am yours. However you choose to want me, I am yours.
Old Bear then addressed Lucia again. "If Drum wins," asked Old Bear, "will you be a good squaw to Drum?"
Lucia looked at him, frightened.
"She will," said Chance, his voice sounding strange and distant, harsh.
Old Bear did not drop his eyes from those of Lucia.
The girl nodded, shivering in the cold.
Still Old Bear did not drop his eyes from those of Lucia.
"Speak," said Chance.
"Yes," said Lucia, "if Drum wins I will be a good squaw to Drum."
A shout flared at the entrance of the camp.
Drum had returned!
Drum, lifting his rifle in triumph and singing, rode into the camp, astride a huge army horse.
Tied by ropes to Drum's saddle stumbled Lester Grawson and Corporal Jake Totter, their arms bound behind them.
After Drum came Drum's warriors, seven of them, grinning, their faces still damp with a sweat that seemed incongruous in the cold, all of them on foot except one, who brought up the rear on a second large-boned army horse, a "U.S." burned on its flank.
The women, the children hanging to them, pressed forward to see the prisoners.
Swelling under the eyes of his people Drum brought Totter and Grawson to where Old Bear sat near the fire; there Drum forced his two prisoners to the ground before the old chief.
The thin woman, she who had beaten Lucia with the stick, coming as close as she dared, shrieked with glee.
Chance felt sick.
One of the warriors dropped the captured rifles and pistols before Old Bear.
Grawson struggled in his bonds, his huge muscles straining against the ropes. "Renegade," he said to Chance.
Chance said nothing, not even knowing for certain how he felt. He was more worried about Lucia, and Drum, than anything else.
Totter caught his eye. The soldier's frame shook with terror. Chance did not judge him a coward. Totter knew the Sioux better than Grawson, in some ways perhaps better than Chance, who knew them only as friends; the Sioux were warmhearted friends, generous, loyal, among themselves good humored, fond of jokes; but as enemies, Chance did not know; he would not have cared to have them as enemies. Totter's eyes were pleading. "You're white," he whispered. "Help us, Chance."
"Shut up," said Grawson.
"Or kill us," whispered Totter, "or for God's sake kill us."
Chance shivered.
Then Totter saw Winona standing among the women. His face went chalky.
The girl was watching him, her face showing not the trace of an emotion.
Old Bear dipped into the weapons, taking Grawson's Colt, which he gave to Chance.
"Thank you," said Chance, checking over the weapon. Never had he meant an expression of gratitude as
deeply as he did that. It not only meant that Old Bear still regarded him as Medicine Gun, and of the Hunkpapa, that he trusted him, but that now in his own eyes and in the eyes of all he was once again a warrior among warriors, for he held a weapon among armed men. The Colt was in good order. Chance slipped it into the holster; too long had the holster been empty.
Old Bear then lifted the two rifles, one by one, examining them. He gave the best one to Drum; the other he kept for himself, handing his old weapon to another Indian. The remaining pistol Old Bear held up by the barrel. The pistol was a weapon for which Sioux had never much cared. It was thought, correctly, to be inaccurate, except at relatively short ranges; it could be beaten in accuracy and distance, of course, by a rifle; it was hard even to hold steady in firing and when it fired the barrel threw the hand up, requiring a separate adjustment for the next shot; it did fire rapidly, but now that shoulder weapons universally used cartridges instead of powder and ball the differential was not that significant. Moreover, some of the Sioux felt that the revolver was somehow a uniquely white man's weapon, and that only they could use it properly; only they knew the medicine of its steel. Nonetheless Drum reached out and took the pistol, handing it immediately to one of his braves. He was in a good mood but he saw no reason at all in giving Chance two of the weapons.
Chance decided this was the moment, if any, when Drum was in high spirits, basking in the glory of his people, to speak to him, hopefully to avert bloodshed between them if it were possible.
"Drum," said Chance, "you are a great warrior."
Drum looked at him, surprised.
"Yes," said Chance, pointing to Grawson and Totter, who squirmed in their ropes, the one defiant, the other terrified. "These are strong, dangerous men," he said, "but to you they are nothing–you bring them like horses to your people."
The ropes which had been tied about the necks of Grawson and Totter were held by one of Drum's braves.
Drum laughed. "It is true," he said.
"I watched you fight at Wounded Knee," Chance continued, watching Drum's face. "You made the Long Knives pay much for their treachery."