“I call myself Edward Smith,” said Chance.
Chance took ten dollars out of the oilcloth wrapper, thrust the wrapper back in his boot, smoothed out the bill and handed it to Carter.
Carter looked at it. “Thet’s too much money,” he said.
Chance shrugged.
“Git the coffee can,” said Carter to his wife.
She brought the can and Carter, fishing about in some bills, and more change, put together about five dollars and gave it to Chance, who poured it in his pocket.
The transaction completed, Carter said to Chance, “You can come in if you want and eat with us, iffen you want. We’d be pleased to have you.”
“What about my friend?” asked Chance.
“He’s Injun,” said Carter.
“I’ll get the chickens and turkeys,” said Chance.
“Want any help?” asked Carter.
“Thanks, no,” said Chance.
“Merry Christmas,” said Carter.
“Merry Christmas,” said his wife.
“Merry Christmas, Mister,” said the two children.
“Merry Christmas,” said Chance and turned away as the door shut.
Chance walked over to Old Bear. “Tonight,” he said, “we will have a feast.”
“Your feast,” said Old Bear.
“No,” said Chance. “Our feast-the feast of Old Bear and Medicine Gun, his friend.”
“It will be a good feast,” said Old Bear.
“It will be a good feast,” agreed Chance.
Chance then turned and walked around the corner of the soddy, heading for the back where the coop was.
As he turned about the back corner of the soddy an Indian leaped out of the darkness swinging at him with a long-handled hatchet.
With a startled cry Chance’s hand flung up to catch Drum’s hatchet arm and the two men grappled fiercely for an instant in the darkness.
“Medicine Gun!” said Drum.
“Goddam,” said Chance, “where in hell have you been?”
Drum dropped his hatchet arm and Chance pulled his sleeves down again over his wrists.
“Many soldiers,” said Drum, by way of explanation.
Nearby Chance saw six braves, painted and geared for war. He was covered by their rifles, but they were lowering them one by one.
“It is Medicine Gun,” whispered one of them to the others.
Drum saw Old Bear and went to him. “We have come to join you, my Chief,” he said.
“I welcome Drum,” said Old Bear, “the son of Kills-His-Horse.”
Chance saw that erect in the hair of Drum was a single feather, white with a black tip, the feather of an eagle.
“We will kill the white people in the lodge of dirt,” said Drum to Old Bear, “and then we will bring the big birds with us to your camp.”
Out of the corner of his eye Chance saw Sam Carter coming around the corner of the soddy with his shotgun.
At the same time he was aware of Drum’s braves fanning out and lifting their weapons.
Carter would have six bullets in his chest before he could find a target, or jerk a trigger.
Chance waved his arm cheerily to Carter. “Just some of the boys,” he said. “Merry Christmas!”
“Just some of the boys, eh?” said Carter, not altogether convinced. Chance wondered if he thought he was just going to wave his shotgun and watch the Indians run.
“That’s it,” said Chance. “No trouble. Just some of the boys.”
Carter looked at the war paint.
Speaking in Sioux, Drum addressed Old Bear. “Let us kill this man,” he said.
Old Bear then spoke loudly, and to Chance’s astonishment, he spoke in English. “This man is my friend,” he said.
Drum scowled, and the other braves once more lowered their weapons.
“Well,” said Carter skeptically, “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” said Old Bear, slowly, speaking each syllable.
“Let us kill him,” urged Drum, in Sioux.
“Drum,” said Chance, speaking in Sioux, “on this night the Son of Wakan-Tonka is born. On this night, of all nights, it is bad medicine to take the warpath.”
Drum now scowled at Chance but Drum’s braves grunted in agreement almost enthusiastic agreement.
Chance gathered there had been some theological discord on this point earlier in the evening.
“Then,” said Drum to Chance, in Sioux, “as the Son of Wakan-Tonka has asked, I will love this man tonight-but tomorrow I will kill him.”
“No,” said Old Bear, “tomorrow we ride to Pine Ridge. There will be no war.”
“I will fight,” said Drum.
“Well,” called Carter, backing away, “Good-night.”
“Good-night,” called Chance pleasantly, waving.
“Merry Christmas,” said Carter, disappearing around the corner of the soddy.
“Merry Christmas,” called Chance.
“Merry Christmas,” said Old Bear.
And then the old Indian, sitting on his pony, lifted his arms and looked up at the stars. In Sioux he said, “Wakan-Tonka, I am glad for You that on this night Your Son is born. It makes my heart happy that on this night a Son is born to You.” And then he cried out to the stars, in English, “Merry Christmas, Son of Wakan-Tonka!”
Yes, Chance thought to himself, Merry Christmas, Son of Wakan-Tonka, on this night You are born, and on this night You begin Your journey to Calvary. Somewhere on this night a dark tree is growing and nails are being forged.
“We will make a feast,” said Old Bear.
“Yes,” said Chance, smiling up at the old Indian, “we will make a feast.”
The braves began to gather the birds, whose frightened clucks and squawks startled the December air. The noises ended quickly, one by one.
Old Bear, Chance and Drum walked back to bring the horses of the war party to the soddy. They were tied in a clump of trees about two hundred yards downwind from the soddy. It had been an unnecessary precaution. The Carters, for some reason, had no dog.
In the trees Chance stopped abruptly, straining his eyes into the darkness. He bent forward, approaching a slumped object among the horses. In the trees, almost under the hoofs of the horses, kneeling barefoot in the brush, slumped over, her hands tied behind her back and her neck roped to a sapling, was a woman.
Chance crouched beside the figure, taking her face in his hands, lifting it to his own.
“Good God,” he whispered. “Lucia-Lucia!”
She opened her eyes, which were numb with shock and cold.
“No,” she said. “No, please don’t.”
Chance shook her.
The eyes, glazed, stared at his face. “I never hurt you,” she said. “Please don’t.”
Chance slapped her twice, hard, trying to jar life and recognition into her.
“I will,” she said weakly. “I will.”
“Lucia!” he yelled. “Lucia!”
She looked at him, slowly, as if she couldn’t see him or understand him.
Then she said, “Edward?”
“Yes,” wept Chance, “yes!”
“I can’t feel my feet,” she said.
Angrily Chance whipped out his knife and with it slashed apart the rope knotted about her neck, then carefully, prying with the tip of the blade, cut the rawhide thongs, one by one, that had sunk in even with her flesh. Chance picked the girl up in his arms and carried her from the trees, heading for the Carter soddy.
Drum barred his path.
“Get out of my way,” said Chance.
For no reason he clearly understood Drum stepped to the side, and Chance carried Lucia, who had fallen unconscious, to the homesteader’s soddy.
The kerosene lamp still burned in the window, like a star on the prairie.
Chance kicked at the door.
The girl stirred in his arms. “Edward?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Chance, “it is.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered softly, almost crying.