Chance’s grip was light on the Colt handle, but his arm was racing with blood, making his fingers tingle.
He wasn’t sure what was going on, and there would be no time lost clearing leather.
A dozen times in his imagination he imagined the gun leaping from its holster.
He struggled, sensing a swift, possible victory, and freedom, against the temptation to throw himself from the horse jerking the Colt free and, from under the animal’s belly, and shielded on the other side by Old Bear’s pony, start firing, first, to the left, then the right, then Drum.
Then, deliberately, painfully, Chance took his hand from the butt of the pistol, letting its palm ride the pommel of his saddle.
This was Old Bear’s game. He would play it his way.
“Ride away,” said Drum to Old Bear, with an angry gesture. “Go! Leave the white man to us!”
Old Bear did not reply immediately, but waited until it was understood by everyone, even Chance, that Drum had not waited for the older man to speak first.
Drum scowled, and the two braves shifted uneasily on their ponies.
“Who is the owner of the loud tongue?” asked Old Bear.
Drum struck himself on the chest with his fist. “Drum!” he said, almost shouting. “The son of Kills-His-Horse!”
Old Bear regarded Drum calmly.
“Is this how the son of Kills-His-Horse speaks to a chief of the Hunkpapa?” asked Old Bear.
The old man’s voice had been quiet, as soft as the rolled leather of a rawhide whip.
Drum choked, and scowled at Chance, and the young Indian’s hands clenched on the carbine.
But he could not now look at Old Bear, meet the silent question of those proud, dim eyes.
Drum stared at the dust beneath his pony’s hoofs, at the brown grass, the stones, the dust.
When he lifted his head Chance saw tears of shame and rage in his eyes.
“Forgive me,” said Drum.
“It is done,” said Old Bear.
“My heart is angry,” said Drum, “that the white man should live. He has killed two braves, and he has hurt another.”
Old Bear looked at Chance.
“They were trying to kill me,” said Chance.
“Why?” asked Old Bear.
“I don’t know,” said Chance.
Old Bear turned to Drum.
“Why?” he asked.
Drum was silent.
Old Bear repeated his question to the flanking braves, but, like Drum, they said nothing, and refused to meet his eyes.
Then Drum said, “I would wear the feather of an eagle.”
Old Bear grunted.
“The white man is the brother of Running Horse,” he said. “That is why you want him to die.”
“No,” said Drum, “to wear the feather of an eagle.”
“You want to shame Running Horse,” said Old Bear, “and take my daughter to your lodge.”
“Running Horse is a short hair,” said Drum.
“He has danced the Sun Dance,” said Old Bear.
“I want only,” said Drum, “to wear the feather of an eagle.”
“Speak to me with a straight tongue,” said Old Bear.
Drum looked down. “I want many things,” he said.
“Now,” said Old Bear, “you speak with a straight tongue.”
Drum looked up at the old man, who sat so straight, gaunt and frail on his pony.
“But most,” said Drum, “I want to wear the feather of the eagle.”
For a long time Old Bear said nothing.
Chance thought that a look of great sadness touched the face of Old Bear, and in that moment for the first time, Chance began to understand the meaning of that single white, black-tipped feather that stood in the old man’s hair.
At last Old Bear said, “The eagles are dead.”
“No!” shouted Drum.
“They are dead,” said the old Indian.
“I,” said Drum, jerking the thumb of his closed fist to his chest, “will wear the feather.”
“Then you will die,” said Old Bear.
“I am not afraid,” said Drum.
He snatched up the feathered lance from the dirt beside his pony and shook it.
“So, too, was Kills-His-Horse,” said Old Bear.
“I am the son of Kills-His-Horse,” said Drum.
“Yes,” said Old Bear, “I see in you the son of Kills-His-Horse, with whom I rode the warpath many times, and I see that it is true that you will wear the feather of the eagle, and that you will die.”
During this time, Chance had said nothing, though he had followed what was said.
Old Bear turned to him. “Do you understand these things?”
“I think so,” said Chance.
“All men die,” said Old Bear, “but few men die with the feather of an eagle in their hair.”
Chance nodded. “I understand.”
Old Bear pointed to Drum. “He is young,” he said, “but he is such a man.”
“Yes,” said Chance. “He is such a man.”
Old Bear turned to Drum. “It would be better to let this man go.”
“I will not,” said Drum.
“Then you must fight,” said Old Bear.
A look of pleasure suffused Drum’s face. “Yes,” he said.
The two braves flanking Chance grunted their approval.
“It is sad,” said Old Bear, “that two of the Hunkpapa must fight.”
“He is a white man,” said Drum.
“He is the brother of Running Horse,” said old Bear.
“He does not even have a name,” said Drum.
Chance puzzled about that, for a moment, and then understood.
Old Bear was looking at him steadily. Then Old Bear looked at Drum and the two braves. “He killed two braves, and hurt one other,” he said.
“Yes,” said Drum.
“He has strong medicine,” said Old Bear. “The medicine of two peoples.”
“My medicine is stronger,” said Drum.
“And he is a warrior,” said Old Bear.
“I am a greater warrior,” said Drum.
“His name,” said Old Bear, “is Medicine Gun.” The old man pointed his finger at Chance. “Medicine Gun!”
And it was as simple as this that Chance received the name by which he would be known from that day forward among the Hunkpapa, with the exception of Joseph Running Horse, who always spoke of him as “My Brother.”
Without looking at Drum or the braves, Old Bear turned his pony back toward the Grand River settlement, and Chance followed him, and Drum, and the two braves.
As Chance rode with the Indians back to the settlement on the river he told himself how mad this was. He had run from Grawson-from the law-had not stood and fought, and now he must fight-for no reason that he understood-and kill or die.
There had been another duel, long ago, but with clean silken shirts, red sashes, seconds, a doctor in attendance, a measured set of rules to which gentlemen might be expected to adhere.
This time his opponent would be a young Indian man, swift, half-naked, fighting before his people, following what rituals or traditions Chance couldn’t guess, and whose honor would not be satisfied with a wound, or a touch, but only by death and Chance’s hair at his belt.
Chance wondered what the weapons would be.
They had seen him use his pistol.
Knives, Chance guessed, knives.
Behind the cabin of Sitting Bull there was a council fire, and about the fire, sitting in circles, were the hunched figures of Indian men, wrapped in blankets, some of them smoking.
Outside the rings of seated men there stood squaws and children.