“I don’t either,” said the voice.
“All right,” said Chance. And he stepped to the threshold of the soddy.
He found himself looking down the two barrels of a shotgun.
“Merry Christmas,” said a voice.
“Right,” said Chance. “Merry Christmas.”
For a time he was studied in the half darkness, and then the voice, speaking to someone he couldn’t see, said, “Light the lamp.”
Chance heard the globe of the lamp being lifted off, and the tiny sound of the knob on its side being turned, thrusting up an inch of wick, and then heard the scratching of a match, and saw briefly the interior of the soddy, the chairs and shelves, a clock on a table against one wall, then lost it as the match went out, then regained it as the wick took the fire and the globe was replaced.
A thin woman, angular with prematurely gray hair, held the lamp up.
She had thin lips, gray eyes, strong, chapped hand’s. She wore a cotton dress, plaid with large pockets on the sides, a man’s shoes.
The man himself had a round, grizzled face, not unfriendly, but wary and curious. The bottom half of his face was as bristly as a hog’s back. His head and neck protruded from the collar, a bit too large, of a red, wool shirt, most probably a present.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Howdy,” said Chance.
“You hungry?” he asked, lowering the barrel of the shotgun.
“Yes,” said Chance.
“My name is Sam Carter,” said the man, but looking beyond Chance to Old Bear.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Chance.
“That’s an Injun,” said Sam Carter, jerking his head toward Old Bear.
“He’s my friend,” said Chance.
Sam Carter looked Chance over more carefully, not seeing any hat, noticing the folded blanket Chance carried over his left shoulder, an Indian blanket.
“You hungry?” asked Carter.
“Sure am,” said Chance. “My friend, too.”
“If you want,” said Carter, slowly, “you can eat with us.”
“Thanks,” said Chance.
“Not him,” said Carter.
“Why not?” asked Chance.
“He’s Injun,” said Carter.
“I’m only passing through,” said Chance, “with my friend.” He looked at Carter, not angrily, more depressed than anything. “I can’t stop. I can buy food.”
Chance saw two boys now, standing behind their mother. One might have been five, the other seven. Both had bushy brown hair, cut straight around their head with a bowl and shears. Both wore bib overalls, heavy shirts and socks. Behind their shirt collars, which were open, Chance could see the soiled collars of long underwear, buttoned shut, but beyond this stitched closed for the winter.
“What kind of food you want?” asked Carter. “We ain’t got much.”
“What do you have?” asked Chance.
“I’m not selling any cattle,” said Carter.
“What do you have?” asked Chance.
“In a coop out back,” said Carter, “I got some chickens, a couple of turkeys.”
“I’ll buy all you have to sell,” said Chance.
One of the boys, the older, had slipped past his father and went to look at Old Bear, who looked down at him impassively.
“What you doing on our land, Injun?” asked the boy.
Old Bear looked down at him. “My horse brought me,” he said. “My horse did not know it was your land.”
“All right,” said the boy, “you can stay.”
“Thank you,” said Old Bear.
“Come in here!” said his mother sharply.
The boy came back to the soddy, fast.
“How in hell much you want?” asked Carter. “Enough for two?”
“About all you have I want,” said Chance.
Carter looked at him suspiciously, and then at Old Bear behind him.
“I heard Sitting Bull got killed up at Standing Rock,” he said.
“I heard that, too,” said Chance.
“Plenty of Injuns, whole packs of ’em, pulled off the reservations right afterwards, I heard,” said Carter. “Some jumped from way down in Pine Ridge. From what I hear, some of the Cheyenne even bolted the Cheyenne River Reservation.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Chance.
“I ain’t seen no Injuns come past here,” said Carter.
Chance was quiet.
“But I did see a parcel of soldier fellers,” said Carter.
“Oh?” said Chance.
“Yeh,” said Carter, “and one of ’em rode over here and asked me about Injuns, but I hadn’t seen ’em, and he said that all the Injuns what come in peaceful will get a pardon for going off the reservation. There’s going to be a powwow at Pine Ridge Agency. You know where that is?”
“No,” said Chance.
“I know the place,” said Old Bear, speaking in Sioux. “It is past the hunting ground of Wounded Knee, where buffalo used to come to drink.” The old man seemed lost in thought. Then he raised his head and looked at Chance. “Do you think the soldiers tell the truth?” he asked.
“What’s he want to know?” asked Carter.
Chance, paying no attention to Carter, turned and addressed Old Bear in the language the old man had chosen to speak. “I do not know,” he said, “but it would be good if it were true.”
“Yes,” said Old Bear, “it would be good.”
“The soldier feller,” said Carter, “said Big Foot’s bunch is already on its way back to surrender.”
“Did you hear?” asked Chance of Old Bear.
“Big Foot is a good chief,” said Old Bear, in Sioux, “he is wise. If he thinks the soldiers tell the truth, he may be right.”
Chance went to stand beside Old Bear’s horse and together they spoke in Sioux.
“Will the Hunkpapa fight?” asked Chance.
Old Bear grunted. “Some will fight, I think,” he said. “Drum will fight.”
“But the Hunkpapa?” pressed Chance.
“The Hunkpapa,” said Old Bear, “are men-not boys-men do not fight just to die.”
“What about the Holy War?” asked Chance. “What about Sitting Bull?”
“I think,” said Old Bear, “there should be no Holy War. Kicking Bear said that the Messiah told us He would come in the spring. He did not tell us to fight in the winter. He wanted us to dance and wait for Him.”
Old Bear looked down at the ground.
“And we cannot make Sitting Bull be alive by killing all the Hunkpapa. Sitting Bull would not kill his people. I will not kill them. The buffalo are gone. There will be snow. If we do not go back the people will die of hunger, or the horse soldiers will find them and kill them.”
“You are a wise man,” said Chance.
Old Bear looked at him. “If I were young,” he said, “and if I were not chief, I do not think I would go back.”
“But,” said Chance, “you are a father of the Hunkpapa, wise with many winters, and you are a chief.”
“The Hunkpapa will go back,” said Old Bear.
Chance without thinking grasped the old man’s arm and squeezed it. “Good,” said Chance. “Good!”
Old Bear smiled.
“I hope so,” he said. “I hope so, Medicine Gun.”
Chance turned to Carter. “We are going to make a feast,” he said. “I will buy your chickens and turkeys.”
“All of ’em?” asked Carter.
“I guess so,” said Chance. “How many do you have?”
“Twenty chickens,” said Carter, “two turkeys.”
“I’ll buy them,” said Chance, reaching inside his right boot for the oilcloth wrapper.
“There’s Injuns around here, ain’t there, Mister?” said Carter.
“It’s hard to tell,” said Chance.
“How come you talk Injun?” asked Carter.
“Learned some,” said Chance. “I really speak it very poorly.”
“Who are you?”