by John Norman
"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.
Drum might, though, thought Chance, make a wide circle, perhaps behind those ridges in the distance. Probably not. That would take a long time, at least. He wouldn't figure there was a point in it. And if he did he'd probably still close his circle and come out ahead of me. At any rate, thought Chance, I'll worry about that in an hour or so.
Chance found himself thinking about having a smoke. He didn't have any more tobacco, of course, and if he had had, he would not have smoked it at the time; a wisp of smoke, the odor of burned tobacco, might have revealed his position.
The wind blew across the Bad Lands, moving driven snow in strange patterns through the
irregular formations; the air was cold.
Chance had no taste for the killing of Drum, or any man, but he had not made the choice; one or the other of them must die.
Drum will not expect me here, said Chance to himself; Drum will underestimate me, because I am white; he underestimated me on the prairie, and he will do so again, and it will be his last mistake.
I am sorry, Drum, thought Chance, I am sorry to have to kill you.
In Chance's mind there passed the fantasy of returning to the Indian encampment, free, for Lucia, of holding her in his arms, of cutting her loose, putting her behind him on his horse and taking her from the captivity and the terrors of the Bad Lands, ending the nightmare of the Scalp Dance and the torture of Totter, the nightmare of the cold and the cruelty of bonds, of the halter on her neck, of the not knowing if she was to live or die, or to whom she would belong.
I am sorry, Drum, thought Chance, but I must kill you. I must lie here and wait for you, as quiet as the steel of a trap, and when you come I must kill you.
A shot rang out. The bullet struck Chance in the back of his left shoulder, smashing him against the rocks behind which he lay, moving upward, emerging through his upper left arm and breaking rock like popping glass about his chin and mouth. Not trying to turn and fire Chance threw himself to the side rolling to the edge of the arroyo and pitching over, falling down the steep side in a slide of gravel and snow, scrambling behind an outcropping of rock.
He knelt behind the outcropping, trying to brush the snow from his eyes and rifle.
He was aware, somewhat now as if it might be someone else, that he was hit.
But the bullet had come from his left, from behind somehow. Drum could not have been there.
There were no tracks, the snow was clean.
Chance's shoulder and upper arm felt numb, as though a sledge hammer had struck him.
Gradually, as Chance knelt with his rifle high, scanning the rim of the arroyo across from him, the shoulder, someone's, began to ache; then it began to feel heavy; the back of the inside of his shirt and his left sleeve started to feel wet and warm; Chance decided it was hot in the arroyo; he was covered with sweat.
Then he saw the tracks.
They passed his own in the bottom of the arroyo.
Damn, thought Chance, damn.
Drum had realized what Chance would figure him to do. Instead of doubling back on the top of the arroyo, as Chance had expected, the young brave had doubled back along the bottom, first having waited a time, long enough for Chance to clear the passage; then, in retracing his steps, he had of course found the place where Chance had climbed out, thus in effect determining the approximate position of his enemy; he had then continued on for several yards, climbed out himself, well behind Chance, where Chance would not expect him–found his target, and fired.
Chance realized bitterly that Drum, once having underestimated him on the prairie, was not going to do so again. Rather this time it had been he, Chance, arrogant Chance, who had underestimated the young Indian.
Lucia, he thought, Lucia.
Chance winced. The bullet, he knew, had it been placed four inches differently in one direction, or six in another, would have been the finish for him.
Another shot whined over Chance, disappearing smoothly into the snow on the far side of the arroyo, then exploding back a handful of rock fragments that took a bucketful of snow with them. It was only in his memory, or maybe his imagination, a second or so afterwards, that Chance had realized there had been a sequence.
Chance nearly squeezed off a shot for no reason, with no target, just to fire back.
He cursed his irrationality. He tried to gather his thoughts, forget the ache, the heat and the sweat.
That shot, he told himself, was not directed at the outcropping.
He doesn't know for sure where I am.
Only that I'm somewhere here, somewhere here in the arroyo.
He wants to draw my fire.
He has three cartridges left.
Chance began to pull off his plaid cotton shirt. It was hell to get it off his left arm and shoulder but finally he teased it from his body.
He shoved his back against the snow on the arroyo wall; with his right hand he scooped up more snow and packed it against the wound in his upper arm.
Slow the flow of blood, thought Chance, slow it.
Clinically he watched the snow held against his left arm turn red, how fast it did so.
Too fast, thought Chance.
He was satisfied to see the wound was reasonably clean; Drum had not cut the heads of the bullets.
He shoved the shirt he had taken off against the wound on his upper arm.
The sweat on his body had frosted now. He no longer felt hot. He was no longer sweating. He began to feel cold.
Chance sat there in the snow for a couple of minutes, feeling stupid, the rifle across his lap.
Then he pulled the cotton shirt from the wound and the way it stuck pleased him, though it hurt to tear it off the wound. Good, thought Chance. The wound began to bleed again. Chance then thrust the cotton shirt behind the outcropping of rock, a spot of color in the bleak whiteness of the arroyo.
Then, gritting his teeth, carrying his rifle, his right hand on the trigger housing, finger on the trigger, the barrel cradled painfully in the crook of his left elbow, Chance began to back down the arroyo, keeping his eye on the ledges, sweeping from the left to the right, looking for Drum.
The young Indian was nowhere to be seen.
At last, about forty yards down the arroyo, Chance sat down in the snow, leaning back against one wall of the passage. He was numb with pain. He seemed tired now. He speculated on how much blood he had lost, how much more he could afford to lose before he became unconscious.
His eyes blurred for a frightened moment, and he was afraid he was going under, but they cleared.
If Drum was crawling along the ledge he might be overanxious, he might fire on the shirt, especially if he came abruptly on the sudden color.
Chance might get a shot at him then.
But Drum was no fool. He might look for something like that. So far Drum had been a jump ahead all the way. He was cunning, too damn cunning. He knew what he was expected to do; then he would do the opposite, catching his opponent unawares.
All right, said Chance to himself, what do I think Drum will do?
The shoulder ached like hell now. That was good. He wasn't going into shock.
He could take that kind of pain, plenty of it.
He would have to.
Chance leaned back against the wall of the arroyo, packed snow again against the wound he could reach.
Mostly he watched.
And thought.
Too wildly maybe.
He must be slow.
Leave out nothing.
Drum might expect the trick with the shirt, or something like it. Drum knew he'd been hit, that he wouldn't be far, that he'd be laying low, and waiting. Given that much, the trick with the shirt, or something like it, would make sense.
Drum would reason that if Chance had done something like this he would have gone down the arroyo some yards, waiting for a clear shot when the Indian jumped for the bait.
In fact he would be right about where he was now, right about where he was.
Chance felt sick.
Drum knew his position, at least within yards.
But, Chance reasoned, Drum may not count on my knowing that he's figured me out. He'll try to trick me into firing, or into showing myself.
He can't know exactly where I am.
A few yards could make a hell of a difference.
Suddenly Chance heard a sound from the arroyo, about a hundred feet from behind him. Chance swung the rifle around. He nearly stepped away from the wall to fire.
No, said Chance, don't.
He stayed close to the wall.
It could have been, Chance thought, a rock, a rock thrown behind me, to pull me into the open facing the wrong direc
tion. But it might be Drum, said Chance. I'll wait, he decided, I'll wait.
Chance sat in the snow, leaning against the wall of the arroyo.
He closed his eyes for a moment against the pain, the damned whiteness of the arroyo, the glare. When he opened them again they had blurred again. He shook his head. He wondered if he had lost consciousness for a few minutes. His eyes cleared. The world seemed very quiet, very bright, very cold, very pure.
He felt stupid sitting there, naked from the waist up, losing blood.
Somewhere in that bright, quiet, cold, pure world a man was hunting him, a young man but a good man, one who knew his business.
I can wait, thought Chance. Then he smiled grimly. I guess I can wait, he thought.
He felt tired, weak.
He thrust more snow against his arm, pushed back further into the snowbank. The cold numbed the pain; it slowed the bleeding.
He closed his eyes again.
Suddenly he opened them, startled, fully awake.
The shadow of a figure, a man with a rifle, was falling on the arroyo side opposite where he sat.
He's on top, on the left, thought Chance, there!
Chance silently, painfully, gathered his legs under him, to spring to the center of the arroyo, turn and snap off the killing shot at the figure on the rim.
If I move fast, thought Chance, I'll have one clean shot before he can bring his gun around.
Chance's legs knotted under him like springs; he tensed to leap to the center of the arroyo, turn and fire; he stopped; he didn't move.
Why would Drum stand upright?
Why would he let his shadow fall into the arroyo?
With his thumb Chance clicked back the hammer on his rifle.
He wanted Drum to hear the noise.
Then, with his back to the ledge where Drum must be, he stepped to the center of the arroyo, facing toward the shadow, away from the object which cast it.
He held the rifle painfully high, steadied in the crook of his left arm.
Chance stood that way for an instant, waiting for the bullet in the back.
The bullet did not come.
Chance smiled.
I have won, he thought, I have won.
He crouched in the middle of the arroyo; with agony he struggled to keep the weapon steady; its weight seemed incredible to him; then the front sight, wavering only minutely, fastened on a patch of blue sky above the arroyo, over the place where the shadow fell.