Chance looked at Running Horse, and the young Indian nodded.
Chance took the pipe carefully from the forked sticks. It was beaded, white with blue beads, and it seemed very old, very fragile.
He handed the pipe to Running Horse, who walked before him and carried the pipe back to their campfire. There Running Horse filled the pipe with some of his own tobacco.
The Indian lit the old pipe and drew on it until a steady swirl of smoke curled from the high, narrow bowl. Then he handed the pipe to Chance.
Trying to remember things as well as he could, Chance lifted the pipe to the sky, and then to the four directions, and lastly lowered it near the ground and lifted it up again.
He then smoked.
The smoke was hot and strong, and it stung his tongue. It was a combination of white man’s tobacco and some other taste, which Chance didn’t recognize.
He handed the pipe back to Running Horse.
“I have smoked your tobacco,” said Chance.
“Yes,” said Running Horse.
Chance then relit his own pipe and each of the men smoked together, not speaking for some time.
“I am your friend,” said Running Horse.
“I am your friend,” said Chance.
“Good,” said Running Horse.
Chance was startled by the young Indian’s next words. “Why are you running from other white men?” asked Running Horse.
For a moment Chance was confused, but then, simply, he remembered that such a question might now be asked, for they were friends, and a friend might ask such a thing.
And so Chance, not hurrying, explained as well as he could who he was, what he had done, and how it was that he had come to the small grove of cottonwoods and discovered the dance of Joseph Running Horse.
He told everything, about Grawson, about Totter, even the duel and Clare Henderson.
Running Horse listened gravely, and at the end he said, “My lodge is your lodge. My fire is your fire.”
Chance thought it over. One place Grawson or the law, or even the army would never look for him would be here, with the people of Running Horse.
He needed a place to stay, to hide, if only for a time, perhaps a few weeks.
“I am grateful to share your lodge,” said Chance. “I am happy to share your fire.”
“Good,” said Running Horse.
He puffed on the long blue-and-white beaded pipe.
“What place is this?” asked Chance.
“Standing Rock,” said Running Horse.
“A reservation?” asked Chance.
Running Horse smiled. “Yes,” he said.
“There aren’t many who come here?” asked Chance.
“No,” said Running Horse, “never many.” And then he added, “Now almost nobody.”
“Why not?” asked Chance.
“They are afraid,” said Running Horse.
“Why?” asked Chance.
“It is the time of the Ghosts,” said Running Horse simply.
“I don’t understand,” said Chance.
Running Horse looked at him in puzzlement. Could it be that anyone was so ignorant as not to know of the Ghost Dance and the Ghost Dancers?
“This is the time when the Sioux dance the Ghost Dance,” he said.
“Were you dancing the Ghost Dance?” asked Chance.
Running Horse looked at him with offended pride, and straightened his body, sitting cross-legged across the fire from Chance, holding the pipe across his body. “No,” said Joseph Running Horse. “I looked at the sun”
Chance said nothing.
Running Horse took another puff on the pipe and then looked at Chance. “Do you wish to know the name of the dance that Joseph Running Horse danced?”
“Yes,” said Chance.
He found himself staring in the firelight at the savage wounds on the chest of his companion.
“The Sun Dance,” said Joseph Running Horse.
Chance nodded.
Chance stared into the fire and poked it with a stick, watching the sparks fly up, like needles of fire against the darkness in the grove of cottonwoods.
“Why?” asked Chance.
“To learn,” said Joseph Running Horse, “if the Ghost Dance is a true dance.”
“I don’t understand,” said Chance.