He looked back. The boy had fallen across the threshold. She was trying to pick him up.
“He’s ill,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”
“I’m going,” said Chance, pulling the head of the sorrel away.
He had not even thanked the boy.
He turned back, briefly, calling in Sioux. “I am grateful,” he said. “It is a good thing you have done for me.”
But the boy did not reply.
“Something is wrong with him,” screamed the woman.
Chance kicked the pony in the flanks and the startled animal had leaped into a gallop and then, fifty yards away, was jerked up short, rearing and snorting on its hind legs.
It had happened. Of course it had. Chance cried out in rage.
The bit twisted cruelly in the horse’s mouth and Chance kicked him savagely toward the soddy. With a shrill snort the animal was jerked back on its haunches before the soddy, and Chance was out of the saddle, jerking his kit from the saddle roll.
He shoved Lucia away and picked up William Buckhom and placed him on the kitchen table. From the boy’s hand, as it unclasped, four rattlesnake rattles fell to the floor of the soddy.
Sweat poured down Chance’s face. The inside of his shirt was drenched. The needle punctures, two sets of them, were on the calf of the left leg.
“He shouldn’t have run,” said Chance, talking to himself. “He shouldn’t have run.”
Chance improvised a tourniquet from bandages and the handle of a wooden spoon Lucia found for him.
He took a scalpel from his bag, wiped the blade with a cloth patch, passed it through the flame of the chip fire and then dipped it in a bottle of alcohol.
He cut crosses on the punctures and pressing his mouth against the boy’s leg began to press and suck out what poison he could, spitting it on the floor of the soddy.
He worked without speaking for several minutes, gathering in the blood and poison and spitting it out.
William Buckhorn stirred, and his glazed eyes opened, and regarded Chance.
“They are coming,” he said.
“I know,” said Chance.
Chance lifted his face to Lucia. It seemed pale and haggard, desperate, angry. “How close are they?” he said, and the way he said it made her afraid.
She ran to the door.
“Two men,” she said. Then she turned. “They’re here,” she said.
There was no hurry now.
Chance bandaged the boy’s leg. He explained to Lucia about the tourniquet. “Get him to the agency as soon as you can,” said Chance. “Find a doctor.”
“There’s a doctor at Fort Yates,” said Lucia.
“Send for him,” said Chance.
The men did not approach the door. Chance heard a shout from outside, perhaps from some seventy-five yards away.
It was Grawson, telling him to come out.
“Thank you for staying,” said Lucia.
Chance had opened his revolver, was checking the cartridges. He spun the cylinder and closed the weapon.
“He would have died,” said Lucia.
“Maybe,” said Chance.
“Who are they?” asked Lucia. “The men outside?”
Chance smiled. “The law,” he said.
“What did you do?” asked Lucia.
“I killed a man,” said Chance.
Lucia’s face went white.
“Come out, Chance!” called Grawson.
“Your name is not Smith,” said Lucia.
“No,” said Chance, smiling.
Before Chance could stop her, Lucia Turner had squared her shoulders and gone to the door. She threw it open and stepped out into the sunlight.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she called.
She was told.
Chance, from inside the soddy, could hear her clearly. “There’s no one here by that name,” she was saying.
“Come out, Chance,” Grawson called.
“I’m alone,” Lucia was saying. “Go away.”
Chance wondered why she was doing this. Because of the boy, because he had stayed.
It was foolish. His horse was outside, saddled, the saddlebags packed.