“Welcome, Medicine Gun,” said Old Bear.
Chance nodded, sitting cross-legged near the chief. “Where is Drum?” he asked, as casually as he could manage.
“You were followed by two men,” said Old Bear. “Drum has gone to get them.” The old man had spoken simply, as though what he had said had been a matter of course.
“Drum didn’t pass us,” said Chance.
“He passed you,” said Old Bear.
Chance looked at Running Horse. The young Indian smiled. “Yes, my Brother,” he said, “it is true.”
“We led someone into a trap?” asked Chance.
“Yes,” said Old Bear.
There was little doubt in Chance’s mind who the two men who had followed would be.
The beat of the tom-tom, incessant, seemed to throb in his bones and flesh.
He felt a strange mixture of swift, unclear, irresistible emotions, pleasure, cruelty, pity, relief, apprehension, confusion, difficulty.
Somehow, in a moment, perhaps paradoxically, he found himself hoping that Totter and Grawson might escape; he knew they would not.
Chance did not envy a man the death which the Sioux might contrive.
Suddenly the tom-tom stopped.
The silence, save for the noise of the fire, startled Chance.
He followed the eyes of the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou to the opening of a blanket shelter stretched between sticks at the foot of the rock wall to his right.
A thin Hunkpapa woman, with a sharp stick, her narrow face disfigured with four mourning wounds, prodded a wretched, stumbling figure from the shelter, a slim, blond girl who fell in the snow.
Chance felt the hand of Running Horse tight on his arm.
The thin woman jabbed the girl twice with the stick and then, using it as a club, struck her several times across the shoulders as she struggled to rise.
Lucia Turner now stood on her feet, but unsteadily, her hands reaching out, trying to keep from falling again.
Her feet had been bound, Chance surmised; it was hard for her to walk.
Lucia was looking at the fire.
Her eyes were wide with fear.
She stood still in the snow, trembling, rubbing with numb, stiff fingers the bruised flesh of her wrists. Chance could see, clearly visible against the white skin, the deep, red burns of rawhide strands.
She had been put in Indian clothing, moccasins and a dress of deerskin. Her hair had been braided behind her back, tied with two strings of cheap glass beads. Chance judged she wore nothing beneath the deerskin. She had not even a blanket to clutch about herself. There probably weren’t enough blankets even for the Indians.
The girl shuddered though whether from fear or cold, or both, Chance did not know.
He wondered if the girl had been brought out to be killed.
Neither of them knew.
They will have to kill both of us, thought Chance, both.
The thin woman struck Lucia again across the back with the stick, sharply, viciously, but Lucia did not cry out. Then the woman, thrusting with the stick, prodded her toward the fire before the men.
Lucia did not cry, and Chance felt proud of her for that.
He also felt helpless.
When Lucia stumbled into the circle of firelight, she saw Chance.
She seemed stunned; her lips moved as though to say his name; then she looked away; that she might not appear to know him; that she might not involve him in whatever might happen to her.
She is magnificent, thought Chance. I love her.
He regarded her, his face expressionless, giving no sign of recognition.
Old Bear addressed the girl. “White Woman,” said he, “how did you come here?”
Lucia looked at him. Old Bear knew this as well as she. The thin woman jabbed Lucia sharply with the stick. “I was brought here,” she said.
“How were you brought here?” asked Old Bear sternly.
Lucia looked at him, bewildered.
“Say it,” said Old Bear.
“They came,” said Lucia, trembling. “They killed my friends. They burned the house.”
“How did you come here?” demanded Old Bear.
“I didn’t want to come here!” cried Lucia.
“How did you come here?” demanded Old Bear.
“On foot,” said Lucia. “My hands were tied behind my back. A rope was put on my throat.”
“Huh!” said Old Bear, satisfied.
Chance then understood that Lucia was being made to understand, and acknowledge the simple fact of her capture, and what this meant; that her life had been spared but that she was a prisoner; and that her life was in the hands of the Sioux, to whom she now belonged.
“On the rope of a warrior,” said Old Bear.
“Yes,” said Lucia.
“What warrior?” asked Old Bear.
Lucia dropped her head. “Drum,” she said, “the son of Kills-His-Horse.”
“You are the squaw of Drum,” said Old Bear.
“That cannot be,” said Chance simply.
A chorus of surprise greeted this announcement.
Old Bear looked at Chance, puzzled. “Why?” he asked.
“She is my woman,” said Chance.
Old Bear was evidently startled. “I did not know this,” he said.
He looked at Lucia.
“Yes,” said Lucia softly. “I am his woman.”
At that moment Chance stood ready to fight the entire Sioux nation.
Old Bear looked at Chance. “One blanket?” he asked.
Chance recalled the Carter soddy. “Yes,” he said, “one blanket.”
Lucia dropped her head.
Suddenly the thin woman with the stick screamed shrilly.
“She is the woman of Drum! I saw him bring her to the camp! Medicine Gun is white! He lies! They talk with the tongues of snakes to save each other!”
“My Brother, Medicine Gun,” said Running Horse, “does not lie.”
The thin woman recoiled, as if she had been stung with a whip. “Short Hair!” she hissed.
The voice of Running Horse did not rise, nor show emotion. He said, “I have danced the Sun Dance; I have smoked with Sitting Bull; I have fought at Grand River; I have fought at Wounded Knee.” Then he looked at her and said, “Go take your place with the women.”
The thin woman said nothing, but retreated sullenly to stand among the other women, and the children.
Old Bear looked at Chance. “It is not good,” he said. “Drum wants the yellow-haired woman.”
“He may not have her,” said Chance. “She is mine.”
“Drum,” said Old Bear, “is the son of Kills-His-Horse. By birth and blood he is Hunkpapa.”
“Not by birth,” said Chance, “but by the blood of Running Horse, my Brother I too am Hunkpapa.”
“In the way of the Hunkpapa,” said Old Bear, “the woman belongs to the warrior who takes her.”
“That is true,” said Chance, “but in the way of the Hunkpapa one warrior does not steal from another warrior.”
Old Bear looked at him. “Drum will fight,” he said.
“I too will fight,” said Chance.
Old Bear looked into the fire, thoughtfully. “It is not good,” he said.
“It must be, Father of the Hunkpapa,” said Chance. “I am sorry.”
Old Bear looked up at Lucia. “Squaw,” said he.
Lucia’s lower lip trembled. “Yes,” she said.
“Warriors will fight for you,” said Old Bear. “One will die.”