“What did they say to that?” asked Chance.
“They want to look for you,” said Old Bear. “But I told them it would not be good. There are young men too ready to fight.”
“Thanks,” said Chance.
Old Bear looked at him, the trace of a smile cracking the leather of his face. “I did not lie, Medicine Gun,” he said.
Chance nodded, looking to where Drum and his braves were shifting on their horses, an angry knot of young warrior’s, glaring and shaking their rifles at the soldiers.
Drum rode a way into the prairie toward the soldiers, and then rode back. He did this twice, holding his rifle over his head, taunting them in Sioux. Then he returned to his young men. Chance guessed that Drum and his braves would not accompany the march to Pine Ridge, not if they could help it.
“Tonight,” said Old Bear to Chance, “it will be hard to leave camp because the guard will be heavy. Tomorrow night, near Pine Ridge, maybe the Long Knives will not watch so close.”
“All right,” said Chance. “I’ll wait, and move out when I can.”
He hoped there would be an opportunity.
Chance looked out toward the encircling cavalry.
Suddenly among them he spotted the brown coat of a civilian. Something about the shape of the man and his carriage in the saddle told Chance it was Grawson. The man was putting something back in his saddlebags, possibly a pair of binoculars.
“He has seen you,” said Running Horse.
After a while, the long lines of Sioux began to move again, and Chance, wrapped in his blanket against the cold, rubbing and blowing on his hands to keep the fingers flexible, rode with them.
“Where do we camp tonight?” asked Chance.
“Wounded Knee,” said Running Horse.
In the camp of the soldiers, corporals went from bundle to bundle, shaking them awake.
This morning, even before reveille, they would be awake and ready for action.
The soldiers stirred, grumbling out of their damp blankets, cursing between chattering teeth, pulling the stiff cold leather of their boots over their wool stockings. When the last buckles were fixed and the last greatcoat was buttoned, the troops massed for formation.
Then reveille cut the morning like a saber.
The announcement of the bugle was not lost on the Sioux, most of whom had been lying awake, their weapons wrapped inside their blankets to keep the trigger housings from stiffening. The white men had oil for their guns, but the Sioux used marrow and grease, and the warmth of their own flesh.
Chance parted the flaps of the crowded lodge he had shared with Running Horse, Winona, and a Minneconjou family. He stared out across the brown grass at the blue dots that formed rectangles in the distance. The bugle sounded again, spearing its notes clearly and quickly to his ear. “Roll call,” he thought. Next it would be mess call. Chance wished he had some of that black coffee that Running Horse called black medicine. He could go for some now. The last coffee he had had was at the Carters’, where Lucia was sleeping now, warm in her blankets, with her hair soft over her cottoned shoulders.
Chance had dreamed of her last night but the dream had not been a good one.
His stomach still felt cold this morning.
In this dream he had gone to California as he and Lucia had planned, and then he had sent for her, but she had not responded to his letter, she had not come to join him.
He had returned for her for some reason to the Carter soddy but it had been gone.
The prairie had been empty of everything but the wind and the loneliness.
He remembered how she had called to him when he had left the soddy, and how frightened her voice had been, as though she might never see him again.
“Lucia!” he had called, starting out of his sleep.
Running Horse had been sitting cross-legged near the side of the lodge, softly clicking the trigger on his rifle to keep it pliant in the cold.
“It was only a dream,” Chance had said.
Running Horse had said nothing but had continued to work the trigger of the weapon.
Chance, wanting to, had told Running Horse the dream.
Running Horse moved the bolt of his rifle back and forth twice. “My heart is heavy for you,” he said.
“It’s only a dream,” Chance said.
Running Horse loaded his weapon. “It is not a good dream,” he said.
“It’s only a dream,” Chance repeated.
Running Horse looked down at the bolt of his rifle, not meeting his eyes.
Damn, thought Chance, damn these damn Indians and their medicine, and their dances, and their superstitions.
“It’s only a dream,” said Chance.
Without looking at him, Running Horse had placed his rifle inside his blanket, holding it against his body. Chance could see the steel barrel in the light of the dawn that touched the interior of the tepee, falling through the tattered smoke hole at the juncture of the poles over their head. Winona had stirred in her blanket beside Running Horse and his hand had gently folded a corner of the blanket about her shoulders. The other Indians in the lodge, an old man, his two wives and a grandson, in that early hour, had been asleep, or lying quietly, their eyes closed, giving no sign they might be awake. Chance had judged from their breathing they were asleep.
He had looked again at Running Horse.
Running Horse had then lifted his head and looked at him, regarding him sadly. “My heart is heavy for you,” he had said.
Shortly after reveille had sounded the Indians had emerged from their lodges and had begun the routines of the camp, urinating, building their fires, starting to prepare their food, as though the nearest soldier might be miles away in bivouac at Pine Ridge.
But for all the apparent unconcern of the Indians nothing the soldiers did escaped their notice, least of all the placement of four rapid-firing Hotchkiss machine guns that had been wheeled into position on a small ridge overlooking the camp. They were pointed downward into the midst of the lodges. If their spraying, sweeping fire were initiated, Chance surmised, it would take only a matter of a minute or so to lay bullets into almost every square yard of the camp.
Had it not been for the fact that the guns were manned by disciplined troops, undoubtedly serving under experienced officers, Chance would have been decidedly uneasy. As it was he supposed the weapons might have been placed as they were almost as a matter of customary field procedure. Beyond this Chance recognized that the commander of the troops, if an intelligent officer, could not be expected to refuse to take serious precautions when dealing with a large number of Indians, many of whom were armed and some of whom might still be hostile. He supposed that he himself in a similar situation, if he had had the weaponry, might have been tempted to deploy it similarly. On the other hand, he, had he commanded the troops, would have been worried somewhat about the effect the sight of the guns might have on the Indians. They might, for example, not understanding the motives of the military, assume, rather like Big Foot’s band had assumed several days ago, that they were in danger of being attacked. Big Foot, of course, had fled, because he could; but here there seemed to be no place to which one might flee; there wasn’t even sufficient cover; so the likely alternative here might seem to be to fight, perhaps, tragically, even to attack first.
But Chance supposed that one, in such situations, must rely on the good judgment of the military, and trust it, and so he did.
After all this sort of thing was their business, not his.
Chance was aware of Running Horse beside him. He, too, was watching the guns, their crews.
“Don’t worry,” said Chance. “It’s simply a matter of military precaution.”