Running Horse hung his head. “I have only one horse,” he said.
“I do not need horses,” said Old Bear.
“Your daughter is worth horses,” said Drum, “and I will give them.”
“I want my daughter to go to the lodge she wishes,” said Old Bear.
Drum laughed aloud and struck his knee with the palm of his hand. “The daughter,” said he, “has promised to come to the lodge of Drum, who is the son of Kills-His-Horse.”
Running Horse reacted as if struck.
“Is it truly the wish of Drum the son of Kills-His-Horse to take my daughter to his lodge?” asked Old Bear.
“It is my wish,” said Drum.
“And what is the wish of Running Horse?” asked Old Bear.
Running Horse looked down for a time, and then looked up, meeting the old man’s eyes. “My wish is the wish of her father,” he said, “that she go to the lodge she wants.”
“In the morning,” said Drum triumphantly, “I will bring horses.”
Old Bear looked steadily at Drum and then, stiffly, rose to his feet. He went to the corner of the cabin and took the girl by an arm, pulling her into the light of the fire. When she stood before them, Old Bear tore away the blanket.
“I will bring no horses for this woman,” said Drum.
Winona did not raise her eyes.
Her hair was loose and filled with dirt, and her face was stained with dirt and tears. The left side of her face was discolored where Totter had struck her. Her blue cotton dress was half torn from her body, and she held it to her by her left hand. Her right hand was clutched into a small fist, clenched beside her exposed, bruised right thigh.
Old Bear seized the fist and with his two hands lifted it and pried open the fingers, revealing inside the pair of yellow chevrons torn from Totter’s sleeve.
“I am an old man,” he said.
Drum took the chevrons.
“I am your eyes,” he said, “and I am your arm.”
“I, too,” said Running Horse.
“In the morning,” said Drum, looking at Running Horse, “we will meet to make medicine.”
“Yes,” said Running Horse.
Winona, who had not spoken, now lifted her head, and looked at Drum.
He regarded her with contempt. “You will not now come to my lodge,” he said. “I do not want you now.”
Old Bear put the blanket about her shoulders and she drew it close about her, once more lowering her head.
Drum turned and left the cabin, and was followed by his two braves.
“You may stay in my lodge,” said Old Bear to the girl, “as before.”
“It would shame you,” she said.
“No,” said Old Bear. “I would not be shamed.”
“I will go away,” said the girl.
“Stay with me,” said the old man.
Winona suddenly cried out and lunged toward the door, and Old Bear tried to restrain her but she pulled away and fled into the winter night, leaving only the blanket in the hands of Old Bear.
Old Bear dropped the blanket to the floor and sat down behind his fire, in the place of the master of the lodge. “Leave me,” he said.
Chance and Running Horse left the cabin.
Outside Chance turned to Running Horse. “What are you going to do?” he asked.
Running Horse looked at him, his expression unreadable. “I am going back to my cabin,” he said.
Chance shrugged, and accompanied the young Indian back to his cabin.
Winona, cold, huddled by the slow-flowing, chill waters of the Grand River, south of the camp of Sitting Bull.
Alone with no one before whom to be shamed she had wept, and poured dirt over her head, and with a sharp stone she had cut her long black hair, rubbing and sawing the strands, until it hung no further than the back of her neck, and then with the stone she had struck herself, again and again, in the thighs and arms, bruising herself, hurting herself.
Now she was quiet and cold, and sat huddled by the waters, watching them move their slow winter way between the frozen mud of the banks.
She cried out, startled, as she heard a twig snap near her, and looked up.
Running Horse, a broken twig in his hands, stood near her. About his shoulders he wore a blanket, which he had brought from his cabin. He threw the two pieces of the twig he had snapped into the water.
“Go away!” cried Winona.
But Running Horse did not move, but stood looking at her.
“Short hair!” she cried viciously, wanting to hurt him. “Short hair! Short hair!”
He looked on her, yet without showing pity, on her bruised and now bleeding body, the dirt with which she had covered herself, the jagged remnants of her once long, beautiful hair.
“Go away!” cried the girl.
But Running Horse would not leave.
She sprang to her feet in rage, seizing up the sharp stone with which she had cut her hair, and her body.