This was Old Bear’s game. He would play it his way.
“Ride away,” said Drum to Old Bear, with an angry gesture. “Go! Leave the white man to us!”
Old Bear did not reply immediately, but waited until it was understood by everyone, even Chance, that Drum had not waited for the older man to speak first.
Drum scowled, and the two braves shifted uneasily on their ponies.
“Who is the owner of the loud tongue?” asked Old Bear.
Drum struck himself on the chest with his fist. “Drum!” he said, almost shouting. “The son of Kills-His-Horse!”
Old Bear regarded Drum calmly.
“Is this how the son of Kills-His-Horse speaks to a chief of the Hunkpapa?” asked Old Bear.
The old man’s voice had been quiet, as soft as the rolled leather of a rawhide whip.
Drum choked, and scowled at Chance, and the young Indian’s hands clenched on the carbine.
But he could not now look at Old Bear, meet the silent question of those proud, dim eyes.
Drum stared at the dust beneath his pony’s hoofs, at the brown grass, the stones, the dust.
When he lifted his head Chance saw tears of shame and rage in his eyes.
“Forgive me,” said Drum.
“It is done,” said Old Bear.
“My heart is angry,” said Drum, “that the white man should live. He has killed two braves, and he has hurt another.”
Old Bear looked at Chance.
“They were trying to kill me,” said Chance.
“Why?” asked Old Bear.
“I don’t know,” said Chance.
Old Bear turned to Drum.
“Why?” he asked.
Drum was silent.
Old Bear repeated his question to the flanking braves, but, like Drum, they said nothing, and refused to meet his eyes.
Then Drum said, “I would wear the feather of an eagle.”
Old Bear grunted.
“The white man is the brother of Running Horse,” he said. “That is why you want him to die.”
“No,” said Drum, “to wear the feather of an eagle.”
“You want to shame Running Horse,” said Old Bear, “and take my daughter to your lodge.”
“Running Horse is a short hair,” said Drum.
“He has danced the Sun Dance,” said Old Bear.
“I want only,” said Drum, “to wear the feather of an eagle.”
“Speak to me with a straight tongue,” said Old Bear.
Drum looked down. “I want many things,” he said.
“Now,” said Old Bear, “you speak with a straight tongue.”
Drum looked up at the old man, who sat so straight, gaunt and frail on his pony.
“But most,” said Drum, “I want to wear the feather of the eagle.”
For a long time Old Bear said nothing.
Chance thought that a look of great sadness touched the face of Old Bear, and in that moment for the first time, Chance began to understand the meaning of that single white, black-tipped feather that stood in the old man’s hair.
At last Old Bear said, “The eagles are dead.”
“No!” shouted Drum.
“They are dead,” said the old Indian.
“I,” said Drum, jerking the thumb of his closed fist to his chest, “will wear the feather.”
“Then you will die,” said Old Bear.
“I am not afraid,” said Drum.
He snatched up the feathered lance from the dirt beside his pony and shook it.
“So, too, was Kills-His-Horse,” said Old Bear.
“I am the son of Kills-His-Horse,” said Drum.
“Yes,” said Old Bear, “I see in you the son of Kills-His-Horse, with whom I rode the warpath many times, and I see that it is true that you will wear the feather of the eagle, and that you will die.”