Chance smiled and gave the boy’s head a rough shake. “I think,” he said to Lucia, “that you then owe this young man four lumps of brown sugar.”
“I don’t want to encourage that sort of thing,” said Lucia.
“Four,” said Chance. “Not one more nor one less, but exactly four.”
“This is no time to speak of brown sugar,” said Lucia.
“Four,” said Chance.
Lucia went to a box on a shelf near the range and picked out four lumps, large ones, of brown sugar. She gave them to Chance and he placed them, counting them out, into the palm of William Buckhorn, who then solemnly swallowed them, one after the other.
After the last one Lucia could have sworn that William Buckhorn, in a manner surprisingly like that of a white child, winked, more of a careful squint than anything else. This squint, or signal, was clearly directed to Mr. Smith, who then returned it in kind.
“She’s coming out,” called Chance out the window.
William Buckhorn in her arms, a heavy burden for her, Lucia stopped at the door. “There’s food in the locker by the range,” she said, “some bread, bacon, flour, beans. Take what you want.”
“Thanks,” said Chance.
“After dark,” said Lucia, “dig out the back.”
Chance smiled. “I thought about it,” he said. “What if they burn the roof first?”
“They’d better not,” said Lucia. “This house is government property.”
“Yes,” said Chance, “I guess they’d better not.” He smiled.
He had considered this matter with some care. The walls wouldn’t burn. Only the roof. He could stay under the table, along the wall. It wouldn’t make too much sense to burn the roof. At least he didn’t think so.
If it came to that Grawson would do it, but hardly in the first hours.
Grawson might even enjoy the siege, the patient waiting.
He would.
Chance wondered how they were fixed for rations.
Probably not badly. They wouldn’t have known how soon they would catch up with him.
There seemed to be ample food in the soddy.
But Chance had already decided to dig out, this first night.
Covering the window and the door, they might not even realize, perhaps for hours, he had made his escape.
He could make it to the Grand River Camp.
Running Horse would help him get a horse.
He would be gone.
With luck, if things worked out, he would be gone.
Lucia smiled, too.
“If I’m in the neighborhood again,” said Chance, “I might want to stop in for another cup of coffee.”
He unbarred the door for her.
“I would be pleased if you did so, Mr. Smith,” said Lucia.
“How is that?” he asked.
“You never killed anyone,” she said. “Not murdered anyway.”
“How do you know?” he said.
“Because you stayed to help William,” said Lucia.
Then, quickly, she turned and, as Chance swung the door open, stepped outside, carrying the boy. His head looked out of the blankets over her shoulder.
“Good-bye, Warrior,” said he, speaking in Sioux.
“Good-bye, Warrior,” said Chance, also speaking in Sioux.
Then they were gone.
Chance swung the door shut and barred it, and would wait until dark.
A coyote yelped somewhere, maybe a quarter mile from the Turner soddy.
The moon was very white and the prairie dust shone as though it had snowed silver.
Corporal Jake Totter, his service revolver clutched in his right hand, lay on his belly back of the soddy.
He grinned.
He could hear a scratching from the inside.
Totter pointed the barrel of the pistol at the wall of the soddy.
He could fire now if he wanted, through the wall, now, and smash open Chance’s mouth and forehead with a half dozen shots. He decided to wait. It might be worth it, seeing the look on Chance’s face, just before he pulled the trigger six times.
Then Chance stopped digging.
Totter waited, not minding. He licked his lips. They were dry. He put his left fist under the barrel of the pistol to support it.