by John Norman
"Yah!" yelled Chance, the sudden shout ringing in the still arroyo. Almost at the same instant, above the shadow, Drum's figure reared into view with incredible swiftness, his rifle pointed downward.
Chance squeezed the trigger and Drum caught the bullet in the chest. His eyes looked startled for an instant and then he toppled into the arroyo, falling in the snow at Chance's feet.
Drum wore no shirt and his body looked dark in the reddening snow. Chance kicked away Drum's rifle.
Drum's eyes were half shut; he was fighting for breath.
Chance stood up wearily, dropped his own rifle into the snow. It was too heavy to hold any longer.
Chance saw that the shadow, of course, still fell calmly on the arroyo wall. He turned, looking upward and behind him. There on the rim of the arroyo opposite, casting the shadow, was Drum's shirt, hooked on a stake of brush. One stick had even been thrust into the brush, looking in the shadow as if it might be a rifle.
Chance, his left arm hanging at his side, knelt beside Drum. He looked at the wound, its placement, considered the angle at which the bullet had entered.
I'm sorry, he thought, kneeling in the snow, I'm sorry.
Drum's eyes opened. In them there was no anger, no fear.
Chance, to do something, not because there was much point in it, scooped up some snow, trying to press it on the wound in Drum's chest.
Weakly Drum pushed his hand away. "No," he said.
Chance was silent.
There was nothing much to say or do. The handful of snow had been a gesture, nothing more. The heart would stop long before the body had lost much blood.
And so Chance knelt in the snow in the bottom of the arroyo, near the young Indian, watching him, listening to him breathe, with his physician's ear marking the change of breath from minute to minute, the alternation of its rhythm, its frequency, the change in the sound, parameters and gradients familiar to Chance; soon gases would no longer be exchanged; a certain natural process would terminate; a man would be dead.
Drum had turned his head toward him, was looking at him.
"My heart is heavy," said Chance. "You will ride the death trail." He looked at Drum. "Tonight," said Chance, "your pony will trample stars and among the stars a second rider waits for you, that you will hunt with him, and there will be antelope and buffalo, and together through the high sweet grass under the blue sky you will ride with him, and all the Indians will say these are the greatest of our hunters, they, Kills-His-Horse of the Hunkpapa, and Drum, who is his son."
Drum smiled at Chance weakly. "No," he said.
Chance said nothing, looking down at the snow.
"I am proud it was you," said Drum. "No Long Knife could kill Drum."
Chance looked at him. "No," he said.
Drum put his right hand over the wound in his chest. Then, weakly, he tried to lift his hand to Chance's wound. Chance took the hand in his own right hand and put it, bloody, to his shoulder.
"My Brother," said Drum.
"I am proud," said Chance, softly.
Drum closed his eyes, and Chance speculated that it was the end. But before he died he opened his eyes once more, and said, "The blood of the badger is true."
Chance never understood his last words. He was not even sure he had heard them correctly. If he had, he guessed Drum was delirious.
He looked at the red body sprawled in the snow; now the wound had stopped flowing. Mechanically Chance listened for the heartbeat, felt the pulse. He saw the eagle feather in Drum's hair, lying in the snow, wet. He took it in his hands, wiped it a bit, and laid it over Drum's left shoulder.
Then Chance got up, went down the arroyo to get his shirt, tied it as well as he could around his shoulder, and then returned to where Drum lay and sat down beside him in the snow, waiting for the Indians to come.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chance, his left arm in a sling, and Lucia, in her squaw dress, dismounted before the remains of what had been her soddy on the reservation. She had ridden Totter's horse, with the cavalry saddle and the "U.S." branded on its flank.
"You shouldn't have come back with me," she said, touching her lips to his.
"You can reach the agency alone from here," said Chance. "You'll be safe."
Lucia looked at the burned-out shell of the soddy, now gentle with snow.
They had ridden northeast with the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou from the Bad Lands to the Grand River country. There had been no incident. The ragged, proud file of Indians had made its way openly and with deliberate slowness through the snowy South Dakota prairie. They had passed without being challenged, sometimes riding under the binoculars of distant patrols, sometimes past the gun ports of squat soddy forts, bunkers of a sort, manned by armed homesteaders. It had been clear that the Indians had not been attempting to conceal their movements or position. It had been clear they were returning to Standing Rock. After Wounded Knee no one had made any attempt to interfere.
Lucia and Chance watched the Indians ride by the soddy, heading for the agency buildings on the Missouri, a few miles to the east.
Aside from their night camps and their pauses in the march to cook and eat, the Indians had made only one stop, that at the place of scaffolds. There, wrapped in a blanket and buffalo robe, tied with rope, fastened in the branches of a cottonwood, they had left the body of Drum. It would remain there until the wind and the rain, and the birds, maybe a century from now, had finished with it. To the bundle they had tied a gourd rattle, that would move when the wind blew, making its noise, and seven eagle feathers, that which Drum himself had worn, and one for each of the young men who had originally followed him from Grand River, two of whom survived.
Lucia and Chance lifted their hands, waving good-bye to Old Bear, to Winona and Running Horse, the others.
"You've got to go," said Lucia, standing close to him. "I know you've got to go."
"I'll write to you," said Chance. "Really I will." And he knew that he would. Come hell or high water, for her sake or his, he was not going to give up this woman. He had been through that. Now the morality of loving her and wanting her had triumphed. He had won her in an arroyo in the Bad Lands of South Dakota. They were one blanket. The Hunkpapa does not desert his woman; he does not abandon her.
"Will you come to California?" asked Chance.
"I'll run all the way," she said, nuzzling against him.
"When you get tired," he said, mumbling, pressing his lips to her throat, "take the train."
Her head was back. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly open. "I'll never get tired," she said. "Never."
He kissed her on the shoulder, under the buckskin dress.
"It's too bad you can't carry me across the threshold," she whispered. "I always wanted to know what it feels like."
Chance looked skeptically at his left shoulder, at the sling improvised from a strip of blanket. Then suddenly he scooped her up with his right arm, tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of barley.
"No!" she shrieked, laughing.
He carried her, teasing and laughing, through the door of the soddy. Just as he dropped her to her feet the laugh stopped in his throat. Lucia, who was trying to regain her balance, turned, laughing. Her body stiffened at what she saw.
In the center of the room, at a scarred, blackened table, a six-gun laid heavily before him, sat Grawson.
Lucia screamed.
Grawson picked up the weapon.
Chance wore a pistol at his belt. It had been Totter's and given to him by one of Drum's braves, after Drum had died. The young man hadn't wanted it. It had been a gift to Medicine Gun, because of whom the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou were to return in peace to Standing Rock. But the pistol might as well have been back in the Bad Lands, or a thousand miles away, or on the dust of the moon.
"Unbuckle your gun belt," said Grawson.
"No," said Lucia. "No." She shook her head. "He saved your life," she said.
The side of Grawson's face twitched minutely,
but then it was again heavy and calm.
Chance's gun belt fell to the dirt floor.
Lucia looked at it wildly.
"Tell her not to interfere," said Grawson, "or I will shoot her dead."
"Stay out of it," said Chance to the girl.
"Back up and put your hands up," said Grawson, getting out of the chair at the table.
Chance did so and Grawson removed the pistol from Chance's fallen holster, thrusting it in his own belt.
He doesn't want to shoot me in front of the woman, thought Chance.
Grawson looked at Lucia, and his face jerked ugly with annoyance.
But the pistol was steady in the strong hand, covering Chance.
Grawson seemed to be too conscious of Lucia; the side of his face moved twice.
Good God, thought Chance, he's thinking about killing us both.
"Let's go," said Chance, brusquely. "Lucia," he ordered, "stay here–don't follow."
"No," she said.
"Do it," said Chance, savagely.
"No," she said. "I won't leave you."
"Do it," yelled Chance, "you dumb bitch! He'll kill us both!"
Grawson shook his head violently. "No," he said. "You're the killer, not me!"
Chance looked at him puzzled. Lucia was crying. "I'm sorry, Lucia," he said. "I'm sorry."
"He'll kill you," she said.
"I am the law," said Grawson. "I do not swerve. I do not yield. I am an eagle with arrows in my claws."
The side of his face moved, spasmlike.
Suddenly Lucia looked at him, and said, very clearly. "No, you are not."
The pistol swung between Chance and Lucia, then back to Chance.
"I know all about you," said Lucia.
"For God's sake, shut up," said Chance.
"You don't know anything," said Grawson.
"I know it was a fair fight," said Lucia. "A duel."
Chance had spoken of these matters with her in the Carter soddy, and later at the camp of Old Bear. He had told her about Clare, the duel, the rest. She had wanted to know. She had had to know.
"No," said Grawson defensively. "It wasn't fair."
"Why not?" demanded Lucia.
"Frank didn't shoot," said Grawson. "He didn't fire."
"Why not?" demanded Lucia.
"Shut up!" screamed Grawson at her.
Chance was puzzled; it was true that Frank Grawson had not fired; he would have fired but he had not had the chance; he had been bringing up his arm to fire, bringing it up easily, as in target practice; he had lifted his arm easily; he had been in no hurry; Frank Grawson had not fired; he had not had a chance to fire; before his gun was level with his chest Chance had shot and killed him.
"Frank wasn't pushing," said Chance. "He never got a chance to fire." He looked steadily at Grawson. "Why not?" he asked.
Grawson looked at him, tears in his eyes, the gun suddenly wavering.
Good God, thought Chance to himself, I know.
"I told him you wouldn't fire," said Grawson, whispering.
Chance shivered. Lucia stood quietly.
"Why did you tell him that?" asked Chance.
"I loved my brother," said Grawson.
Suddenly it seemed to Chance that something had formed, coming whole from pieces the nature of which he had only barely suspected before.
There had been Clare Henderson, silken Clare, the broken engagement, the fiery suitor Frank, eager to avenge her honor, and in the background, always, cumbersome, conscientious Lester, the older brother. It had been a joke, that they had been brothers, supple, swift, witty, laughing Frank, and dull Lester, as imaginative as a clod of mud, but as dependable, as honest as a rock. How many times had Lester managed to win Frank's fights for him, to take the blame for him, to preserve him as the darling of his parents and neighbors; and then once, somehow, this clumsy, large man had, from afar, fallen in love with a beautiful woman; Chance could remember the laughter of Clare, and Frank, as they had spoken of Lester, made him the butt of their jokes; Chance could remember that in those days he had felt sorry for Lester Grawson, hopeless Lester; but it had been a long time since Chance had felt sorry for Lester Grawson, a long time.
"I loved my brother," mumbled Grawson. "I loved him."
"Why did you tell your brother that he wouldn't fire?" asked Lucia.
Grawson's face moved uncontrollably. "It was dishonorable for Chance to fire," he said. "Chance was in the wrong–he should have stood there–stood there–I thought he was honorable, that he would only stand there–he was in the wrong–he should not have fired!"
Chance laughed.
Grawson looked at him, enraged. The hammer moved back on the pistol.
"You're a lawman," said Chance. "You were then." He looked at Grawson. "You knew more about men and living and dying than Frank ever found out–you were smarter than Frank ever was–Frank was a fool."
Grawson looked at him strangely. "No," he said, "Frank was smarter–always smarter."
"You knew men," said Chance. "You knew I'd fire."
Grawson looked at him, tears streaming down his face.
"No," he said, "I believed it–I didn't think you'd fire."
"I don't believe you," said Lucia.
"Be quiet," said Chance. "For God's sake, be quiet."
"It's true," yelled Grawson, "it's true!"
"No," said Lucia, calmly, "it is not."
"Please shut up, Lucia," begged Chance. "For God's sake, shut up."
"Nonsense," said Lucia, and her voice was very clear and very calm, like knives of logic, and it sounded irritatingly prim, very schoolteacherish; Grawson had probably heard such a voice, as had Chance, a thousand times in his youth, in a dozen classrooms, from a dozen righteous women instructing him, correcting him, pointing out his errors. "It seems to me quite clear," said Lucia, "that you are confused on this matter." She paused. "It also seems to me unlikely that you really entertained a serious affection for your brother."
"I loved him!" yelled Grawson, sweating, his face jerking, the gun in his hand trembling.
"Shut up!" yelled Chance to the girl.
"Perhaps your parents wished you to do so," said Lucia, "or perhaps you felt it was your duty, but I regard it as quite unlikely that you actually did so."
"I loved him!" screamed Grawson.
"Is that why you killed him?" she asked.
There was an awful silence in the room, and in the world. It seemed not even the wind moved outside the soddy.
Slowly Grawson turned to face Lucia, numbly.
Chance, his hands up, tensed, wondering if he could reach the large man. The risk. Lucia.
"I didn't kill him," he said, like a little boy.
"You most certainly did," said Lucia crisply.
"No," said Grawson, shaking his head, the word indistinct, protesting.
"Most certainly you did," said Lucia. "You told him Mr. Chance would not fire. Obviously you knew this to be incorrect. Thus, knowingly, you sent your brother to his death and thus, clearly, it is you who killed him."
Suddenly Grawson screamed and swung the gun on Lucia eyes wild face hideous jerking she twisting screaming Chance leaping striking the weapon it firing four times three times into the wall of the soddy once into the air.
With his right hand Chance, weak from the loss of blood, tried desperately to bang onto the barrel. His left arm was all but useless. Lucia scrambled for a stick of wood near the wall for a club. Grawson tore the barrel from Chance's hand, cutting the palm of his hand, a bloody line, with the weapon's sight.
Grawson, breathing heavily, stood covering them both with the weapon, his back to the threshold of the soddy.
They had lost.
"I get it," said Grawson. "A trick," he said, "a good trick." He drew a long breath. "It didn't work," he said. He eyed them. "You're both killers," he said. "Both of you."
"Not the girl," said Chance, "not her."
"Her too," said Grawson, sweating. He looked at Lucia. "You'd k
ill me, wouldn't you, Lady, if you had the chance, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," said Lucia. "I would."
"Her too," said Grawson. "She's a killer, too. Both of you." He wiped his glistening face with the back of his left hand. He looked at them. "I am the law," he said. "I am justice. I do not swerve. I do not yield. I am an eagle with arrows in my claws."
Chance looked at him, feeling sick.
Grawson pointed his gun at him. "You killed Frank, didn't you?" he said.
Chance said nothing.
Grawson turned the gun toward Lucia.
Chance thought he heard the snort of a horse, some yards away, outside.
"Yes," said Chance, "I killed him."
"Guilty," said Grawson. He looked at Lucia. "You," he said. "Lady, you'd kill me if you could, wouldn't you?"
"No, she wouldn't," said Chance.
"Yes," said Lucia, "if I had the opportunity I would most certainly kill you."
Grawson looked at her. "Guilty," he said.
"What are you going to do to her?" asked Chance.
"I am the law," said Grawson.
Then he looked at Chance and shook his head. "I'm not an Indian," he said, "or a bad man–I won't do anything to her–nothing like that–just kill her–only that."
Chance closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them.
"Believe me," said Grawson.
"I believe you," said Chance.
Suddenly Lucia gasped. Chance, too, saw it.
Then it seemed to Grawson that Chance was strangely calm, for a man about to die.
"What are you going to do now?" asked Chance.
The side of Grawson's face moved, not pleasantly. "I am the law," he said. He moved the pistol to cover Chance. The barrel seemed to waver. His hand trembled. His face was ugly to watch. He lifted the gun to Chance's chest.
"Do not fire," said Running Horse.
Grawson felt the barrel of a rifle push into the back of his neck, at the base of the skull.
"I saw the tracks of a horse," said Running Horse. "I came back."
Lucia fainted.