His stomach still felt cold this morning.
In this dream he had gone to California as he and Lucia had planned, and then he had sent for her, but she had not responded to his letter, she had not come to join him.
He had returned for her for some reason to the Carter soddy but it had been gone.
The prairie had been empty of everything but the wind and the loneliness.
He remembered how she had called to him when he had left the soddy, and how frightened her voice had been, as though she might never see him again.
“Lucia!” he had called, starting out of his sleep.
Running Horse had been sitting cross-legged near the side of the lodge, softly clicking the trigger on his rifle to keep it pliant in the cold.
“It was only a dream,” Chance had said.
Running Horse had said nothing but had continued to work the trigger of the weapon.
Chance, wanting to, had told Running Horse the dream.
Running Horse moved the bolt of his rifle back and forth twice. “My heart is heavy for you,” he said.
“It’s only a dream,” Chance said.
Running Horse loaded his weapon. “It is not a good dream,” he said.
“It’s only a dream,” Chance repeated.
Running Horse looked down at the bolt of his rifle, not meeting his eyes.
Damn, thought Chance, damn these damn Indians and their medicine, and their dances, and their superstitions.
“It’s only a dream,” said Chance.
Without looking at him, Running Horse had placed his rifle inside his blanket, holding it against his body. Chance could see the steel barrel in the light of the dawn that touched the interior of the tepee, falling through the tattered smoke hole at the juncture of the poles over their head. Winona had stirred in her blanket beside Running Horse and his hand had gently folded a corner of the blanket about her shoulders. The other Indians in the lodge, an old man, his two wives and a grandson, in that early hour, had been asleep, or lying quietly, their eyes closed, giving no sign they might be awake. Chance had judged from their breathing they were asleep.
He had looked again at Running Horse.
Running Horse had then lifted his head and looked at him, regarding him sadly. “My heart is heavy for you,” he had said.
Shortly after reveille had sounded the Indians had emerged from their lodges and had begun the routines of the camp, urinating, building their fires, starting to prepare their food, as though the nearest soldier might be miles away in bivouac at Pine Ridge.
But for all the apparent unconcern of the Indians nothing the soldiers did escaped their notice, least of all the placement of four rapid-firing Hotchkiss machine guns that had been wheeled into position on a small ridge overlooking the camp. They were pointed downward into the midst of the lodges. If their spraying, sweeping fire were initiated, Chance surmised, it would take only a matter of a minute or so to lay bullets into almost every square yard of the camp.
Had it not been for the fact that the guns were manned by disciplined troops, undoubtedly serving under experienced officers, Chance would have been decidedly uneasy. As it was he supposed the weapons might have been placed as they were almost as a matter of customary field procedure. Beyond this Chance recognized that the commander of the troops, if an intelligent officer, could not be expected to refuse to take serious precautions when dealing with a large number of Indians, many of whom were armed and some of whom might still be hostile. He supposed that he himself in a similar situation, if he had had the weaponry, might have been tempted to deploy it similarly. On the other hand, he, had he commanded the troops, would have been worried somewhat about the effect the sight of the guns might have on the Indians. They might, for example, not understanding the motives of the military, assume, rather like Big Foot’s band had assumed several days ago, that they were in danger of being attacked. Big Foot, of course, had fled, because he could; but here there seemed to be no place to which one might flee; there wasn’t even sufficient cover; so the likely alternative here might seem to be to fight, perhaps, tragically, even to attack first.
But Chance supposed that one, in such situations, must rely on the good judgment of the military, and trust it, and so he did.
After all this sort of thing was their business, not his.
Chance was aware of Running Horse beside him. He, too, was watching the guns, their crews.
“Don’t worry,” said Chance. “It’s simply a matter of military precaution.”
Running Horse said nothing.
“They do that sort of thing,” said Chance “almost without thinking about it. It’s just what soldiers do. Put up guns, have drills. It’s like a parade.”
Running Horse looked at him.
“The United States Army,” said Chance, a bit irritably, “doesn’t go about shooting down innocent people.”
“Look,” said Running Horse, pointing into the distance.
Chance looked closely. He could see horses, in dozens of groups of five or six, being led away from the soldiers’ camp, out into the prairie. Chance was puzzled. If the soldiers were going to ride those horses to escort the Indians to the agency what was the point of leading them out into the prairie, taking them several hundred yards away?
“Why are they taking the horses away?” asked Running Horse.
“I don’t know,” said Chance.
“Why would you take horses away?” asked Running Horse.
“I don’t know,” said Chance.
“I would take them away,” said Running Horse, “so they should not be killed, so they would not be in the way when people shoot.”
“Those men,” said Chance, “are United States soldiers.” Even to Chance what he said sounded a bit naive, in the face of the movement of the horses. “United States soldiers,” he said, asserting it as if it might almost be on act of faith, “do not attack without reason.”
Running Horse watched for a bit longer. Then he turned to Chance and said, “Maybe they will find a reason.”
Drum, an eagle feather high in his hair, stepped up to Running Horse and Chance. “I have come to Wounded Knee,” he said, “for this morning.” He pointed to the guns on the ridge. “Those are guns of many rifles,” he said. “Now we must fight or we will all be killed.” Then he added, “Old Bear was a fool to trust Long Knives.”
Drum turned abruptly and left, beginning to move about the camp, urging the warriors to be ready to fight.
Already in the camp several of the warriors had begun to chant their death song.
The squaws gathered the children together, holding them closely.
The children watched the distant soldiers and the guns with curiosity.
Running Horse turned to Chance. “You are my brother,” he said simply. “It has made my heart glad.”
Chance looked at the young Indian. “You, too are my brother,” he said. “And, too, it has made my heart glad.”
Running Horse and Chance now watched four riders approach the camp. Instinctively, Chance drew the Indian blanket more about his shoulders.
The first man was an army officer, of a rank that Chance could not make out at the distance. He was followed by two troopers, one of whom held a flag of truce. The fourth man, a large man, wore a heavy, brown, fur-collared mackinaw coat; leather gloves; and a fur cap with its earflaps turned down and tied under the chin. It was Grawson.
At the edge of the camp these men met Big Foot and Old Bear.
Chance could watch them talk, and he could see that the officer was impatient, judging from the way his white-gloved hands jerked as he talked. He pointed several times to the guns on the ridge.
Behind the officer, Grawson casually surveyed the camp until, from a distance of about seventy-five yards, he made out Chance. Then the big body in the brown coat, like a satisfied bear, seemed to relax on the horse, almost somnolently.