“Go from this place,” said Old Bear.
“If I go from this place,” said Chance, “three braves will kill me.”
“I saw no braves,” said Old Bear, puzzled.
“They let you ride through them to come here,” said Chance.
“Are they Crows?” asked Old Bear sternly.
“No,” said Chance. “They are Hunkpapa Sioux, and their leader is named Drum.”
Old Bear seemed to stiffen. “He wants my daughter for his lodge,” said Old Bear.
“I won’t hurt you,” said Chance.
“He is bad,” said Old Bear. “Bad” And the old Indian made a gesture as if throwing something from him into the dirt, and disgust showed on the wrinkled face. “He wants me to die,” said Old Bear. “He wants you to kill me.”
“I won’t hurt you,” said Chance.
“Who are you?” asked Old Bear.
Chance looked to make sure that the young Indians were still where he had seen them last. “I am called Chance,” he said, “and among my own people I am a doctor.”
“You were at the camp of Sitting Bull,” said Old Bear.
“Yes,” said Chance.
“The medicine of the white man is strong,” said Old Bear. “It is their strong medicine which has defeated my people, not their bullets or their soldiers.”
Chance stood by the old man’s pony, not knowing what to answer, not completely understanding what he had meant.
“How long have you been here?” asked Old Bear.
“Since last night,” said Chance.
“Have you food?” asked Old Bear.
“No,” said Chance.
“Did you take food from the graves?” asked Old Bear.
“No,” said Chance.
Old Bear reached to a sack that was tied in the mane of his pony. Out of this he drew a handful of corn which he placed in Chance’s hands, which Chance gobbled down, and then two grease cakes, of which Chance made similarly short work.
“I will give no offering today,” said Old Bear.
“Thank you,” said Chance.
Old Bear turned on the pony’s back, squinting toward the hill in the distance, probably seeing little, but knowing, or sensing, where the young men would be.
“Once,” said Old Bear, “the Hunkpapa would not kill a white man because it would shame them.”
“Yesterday,” said Chance, “I killed two of them, maybe three.”
“Your medicine is strong,” said Old Bear.
“I was lucky,” said Chance.
“Strong medicine makes good luck,” said Old Bear.
Old Bear turned again to face Chance. “It is said you are the brother of Joseph Running Horse.”
“I am,” said Chance.
“Then you are Hunkpapa,” said Old Bear. “You are a white man but Hunkpapa. That is why you are strong. You have the medicine of two peoples.”
He looked back to the jutting break in the prairie on which Drum and his braves waited.
“Yet,” said Old Bear, “they would let me ride to your gun.”
“It’s my fight,” said Chance. “Not yours.”
“I was not always Old Bear,” said the old man, not looking at Chance.
Chance said nothing.
The Indian turned to face Chance. “I was once War Bear,” he said.
Chance was silent.
Old Bear sat astride his pony for a long time, not moving. Watching Chance.
His hands, with their thin, worn fingers, stiff and swollen at the knuckles, held the nose rope of his pony, and, lying across the pony’s mane, his ash bow and three buffalo arrows. His body, Chance noted, had been smeared with grease. The white hair of his braids had been tied with leather strings, deerskin Chance guessed. In the mane of the pony, opposite where the sack of corn and grease cakes had hung, there was tied a medicine bag, formed from the skin of a beaver, still retaining the head of the animal.
“You did not kill me,” said Old Bear, speaking as if noting something about the weather, or what day of the week it was.
“No,” said Chance.
“When you leave,” said Old Bear, “I will go with you.”
Chance said nothing.
He watched the old Indian dismount. It was hard for the old man but Chance knew that he must do nothing to help, that he must not even appear to notice.
When the old man was afoot he turned to face Chance.