“The white man came,” said Old Bear, “and with the knives pulled by horses cut our land open, turning the high, sweet grass to dust. He made the streams of our country dirty. He killed the buffalo. He killed the antelope.”
Chance was looking out across the prairie, not wanting to say anything, not being able to say anything.
“The white man,” said Old Bear, “does not love this land.”
Chance turned to look at the old man, so thin, his white braids tied with string, his back straight, his head high, held with pride and anger.
“I love this land,” said Old Bear.
“I know,” said Chance.
“Tonight,” said Old Bear, “is the birth-night of the Son of Wakan-Tonka.”
“Christmas Eve,” said Chance.
Old Bear turned and looked at Chance. “The Son of Wakan-Tonka,” said Old Bear, “said that all men are brothers, that they should love one another, that the warrior should bless and love his enemy.”
“Yes,” said Chance, “I have read that.”
“Why does the white man not do as the Son of Wakan-Tonka has asked?”
“I don’t know,” said Chance.
“The soldiers will come and kill us,” said Old Bear, “but it will not be easy for them.” The old man spoke almost as if thinking aloud. He looked again across the prairie. “Many soldiers will die, but in the end, the people will die.” Old Bear turned to Chance. “I am ready to die,” he said. “I am old. I have fought many times. I have worn the eagle feather.” Then the old man’s eyes seemed infinitely sad as they rested on Chance. “But,” said he, “I do not want the people to die-I do not want the Dakota to die.”
“Maybe,” said Chance, “there will be peace.”
“Do you think so, Medicine Gun?” asked Old Bear.
“No,” said Chance.
“I would like to make a last feast,” said Old Bear, “a feast on the night that the Son of Wakan-Tonka is born.” He smiled. “Long ago on such a night I might have given horses and buffalo robes and bullets but tonight, on the night the Son of Wakan-Tonka is born, I have nothing.”
Chance noticed something on the prairie that made him lean forward in the saddle, straining his eyes. He wished Running Horse were here, for the young Indian’s eyesight was unusually keen. There was a light in the distance, like a small star on the prairie.
“What is it?” asked Old Bear.
“I think there is a light down there,” said Chance.
“Soldiers?” asked Old Bear.
“I don’t think so,” said Chance. “Probably a soddy. It’s steady and small, not like a campfire. Probably a kerosene lamp.”
Chance remembered the money he had, folded in a piece of oilcloth thrust in his boot, probably more than a hundred dollars.
If that were a house maybe he could buy some food.
“Yes,” said Old Bear, “it is a lodge made from the dirt of the land; my young men have told me; there is a man there and his woman, and two children.”
“The light,” said Chance, “looks a bit like a star-out there on the grass of the prairie.”
“A star?” asked Old Bear.
“On this night,” said Chance, “the Son of Wakan-Tonka is born.”
“Huh!” said Old Bear. “Let us ride!”
So the two men, leaning back on their horses, urged the mounts down the alkaline declivity to the prairie, the dust like white clouds rising behind them, and began to ride slowly toward the light in the distance.
Call it a star, said Chance to himself, call it a star.
For a quarter of an hour they rode, not speaking, through frosted brown grass until they had approached the light, which came from a kerosene lamp that burned in the thick window of a homesteader’s soddy.
“He does not know we are here,” said Old Bear, “or he would put out the light.”
Chance dismounted and went to the door of the soddy.
Old Bear, still mounted, holding the reins of Chance’s horse, waited a few yards from the door, out of the range of light that would fall when the door was opened.
Chance knocked on the pine door of the soddy.
There was a sudden scuffling of chairs thrust back, and the lamp went out.
Chance stood there, then decided to move to one side of the door, in case anyone fired through it.
He heard the breaking open of a shotgun, and after a second, its snapping shut, and was pleased that he had stepped aside.
Then there came a voice from inside, from somewhere behind the door, but not straight behind it, calling out, “Who’s out there?”
“My name is Edward Smith,” said Chance. “I’m a friend. I’m a stranger. I’m passing through.” He stood there for a time, listening. Then he added, for good measure, paying his respects to the holiday, “Merry Christmas.”
The door swung open a bit, moved by someone he couldn’t see.
“Step into the door, Mister,” said a voice.
“I don’t aim to get shot,” said Chance.
“I don’t either,” said the voice.
“All right,” said Chance. And he stepped to the threshold of the soddy.
He found himself looking down the two barrels of a shotgun.
“Merry Christmas,” said a voice.
“Right,” said Chance. “Merry Christmas.”