“Thank you,” said Edward Chance.
There was a slight noise at the door and Lucia’s half scream was stifled in her throat as Chance slipped behind her, his left hand covering her mouth, his right arm locked about her waist holding her helpless. “Don’t make noise,” whispered Chance. Lucia was too startled, after her first fright, to even whisper. She shook her head, yes. Who was this? What was he afraid of? He released her and she saw that the pistol had moved from his holster. She hadn’t seen it drawn but it was in his hand. “I’m sorry,” said Chance, softly. Then, curtly, he gestured toward the door. “See who it is,” he said, his lips more forming the words than his mouth spoke them.
Lucia, shaken, stared at Chance.
“You’re a criminal,” she said.
The barrel of the pistol gestured to the door.
Lucia went to the door. “Who is it?” she asked.
A boy’s voice answered. “They are coming,” he said.
“Go away, William,” said Lucia. “Go away.”
Then to her surprise the man in the room with her moved past her, dropped the gun into his holster and opened the door. He spoke to the boy briefly in Sioux.
God, thought Chance, already they’re here. The two men.
How far?
Not far.
The boy seemed sick. He was leaning against the plank doorjamb of the soddy.
I’ve got to get out, thought Chance, now.
“What’s wrong, William?” the blond woman was asking.
Chance moved through the door and, shading his eyes, stared into the distance.
A tiny drift of dust perhaps a mile or so away could be seen. They weren’t coming fast. He’d have maybe fifteen minutes’ start.
The boy had seen them from the top of the rise, and had apparently run to the soddy to warn him. He was covered with sweat, breathing heavily. And probably only because he had spoken a few words of the boy’s language, something that set him apart from all the white others.
Chance swung into the saddle.
“Mr. Smith!” called the blond woman.
He looked back. The boy had fallen across the threshold. She was trying to pick him up.
“He’s ill,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”
“I’m going,” said Chance, pulling the head of the sorrel away.
He had not even thanked the boy.
He turned back, briefly, calling in Sioux. “I am grateful,” he said. “It is a good thing you have done for me.”
But the boy did not reply.
“Something is wrong with him,” screamed the woman.
Chance kicked the pony in the flanks and the startled animal had leaped into a gallop and then, fifty yards away, was jerked up short, rearing and snorting on its hind legs.
It had happened. Of course it had. Chance cried out in rage.
The bit twisted cruelly in the horse’s mouth and Chance kicked him savagely toward the soddy. With a shrill snort the animal was jerked back on its haunches before the soddy, and Chance was out of the saddle, jerking his kit from the saddle roll.
He shoved Lucia away and picked up William Buckhom and placed him on the kitchen table. From the boy’s hand, as it unclasped, four rattlesnake rattles fell to the floor of the soddy.
Sweat poured down Chance’s face. The inside of his shirt was drenched. The needle punctures, two sets of them, were on the calf of the left leg.
“He shouldn’t have run,” said Chance, talking to himself. “He shouldn’t have run.”
Chance improvised a tourniquet from bandages and the handle of a wooden spoon Lucia found for him.
He took a scalpel from his bag, wiped the blade with a cloth patch, passed it through the flame of the chip fire and then dipped it in a bottle of alcohol.
He cut crosses on the punctures and pressing his mouth against the boy’s leg began to press and suck out what poison he could, spitting it on the floor of the soddy.
He worked without speaking for several minutes, gathering in the blood and poison and spitting it out.
William Buckhorn stirred, and his glazed eyes opened, and regarded Chance.
“They are coming,” he said.
“I know,” said Chance.
Chance lifted his face to Lucia. It seemed pale and haggard, desperate, angry. “How close are they?” he said, and the way he said it made her afraid.
She ran to the door.
“Two men,” she said. Then she turned. “They’re here,” she said.
There was no hurry now.
Chance bandaged the boy’s leg. He explained to Lucia about the tourniquet. “Get him to the agency as soon as you can,” said Chance. “Find a doctor.”
“There’s a doctor at Fort Yates,” said Lucia.
“Send for him,” said Chance.
The men did not approach the door. Chance heard a shout from outside, perhaps from some seventy-five yards away.
It was Grawson, telling him to come out.
“Thank you for staying,” said Lucia.
Chance had opened his revolver, was checking the cartridges. He spun the cylinder and closed the weapon.
“He would have died,” said Lucia.
“Maybe,” said Chance.
“Who are they?” asked Lucia. “The men outside?”
Chance smiled. “The law,” he said.
“What did you do?” asked Lucia.
“I killed a man,” said Chance.
Lucia’s face went white.
“Come out, Chance!” called Grawson.
“Your name is not Smith,” said Lucia.
“No,” said Chance, smiling.
Before Chance could stop her, Lucia Turner had squared her shoulders and gone to the door. She threw it open and stepped out into the sunlight.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she called.
She was told.
Chance, from inside the soddy, could hear her clearly. “There’s no one here by that name,” she was saying.
“Come out, Chance,” Grawson called.
“I’m alone,” Lucia was saying. “Go away.”
Chance wondered why she was doing this. Because of the boy, because he had stayed.
It was foolish. His horse was outside, saddled, the saddlebags packed.
“There’s no one here,” Lucia said. “It’s my horse,” she said.
Chance tensed as he heard a shot.
Lucia screamed.
“Your horse is dead, Chance,” called Grawson. “Come out.”
“Get back in here,” hissed Chance to Lucia.
She obeyed him.
She was inside the soddy.
William Buckhorn lifted himself on one elbow on the table. “I will fight, too,” he said.
“Keep the boy quiet,” said Chance.
“You ain’t got a chance,” called a voice. That was Totters voice. Not smart of him to reveal his position. He was on the other side of the soddy, away from the door. Covering the window.
Chance slid the bar behind the door, and, on his hands and knees, crawled over to the window. He stood up then, inside the window, and moved about an inch of his head from the frame, to get an eye on the outside.
Two shots smashed into the soddy, the first splintering the board that framed the window on the left, the second splashing a long, thin stream, almost like water, of dust into the center of the room.
So that was where Totter was.
Chance’s cheek stung with splinters. His eyes were blinded from the shower of dust.
Lucia had screamed.
“Come out,” Grawson called.
Chance tried to clear his eyes and cut his face with the sight of his Colt.
Lucia was beside him. She had dipped the him of her skirt in the water bucket and was wiping his face and eyes.
“Thanks,” said Chance. Then, “You’ve got to get out of here.”
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Chance.
“I brought you some rattles,” said William Buckhorn, peering over the edge of the table, looking for them.