He must wait.
Old Bear sat a little forward of most of the warriors, his eyes staring into the fire, not really seeing it.
Chance noted that Drum, too, was not present, nor any of the young warriors who habitually followed him.
Perhaps Lucia was with Drum, and his men.
Chance’s fists clenched.
Then he saw, suddenly, revoltingly, in a clear place near the fire, scalps, hair and skin, heaped on the ground. Lucia had screamed. It was a dark, loose pile, grisly, matted, stained with brownish reds, some of the hair stiff, the whole pile rather damp from the mud and snow, droplets glistening here and there on it, lying in the mud near the fire. Many scalps. More, Chance noted than those of the Carters alone. Lucia. She had screamed. I heard her. No. None of the scalps blond. None blond. None. Not blond. And Chance took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly, his hands trembling. Lucia, he told himself, is still alive.
Old Bear stood to welcome Winona.
She went to him, standing before him, and Chance could see that the old man was happy beyond happiness, though hardly did his expression change. “Huh!” he said to her. Winona inclined her head to him, gently. “Huh!” said Old Bear again, and motioned for her to go and stand with the other women, and the children, which she did.
Running Horse took his seat as a warrior, a bit behind Old Bear. The young Indian motioned for Chance to sit beside him. None of the braves objected to Chance taking that place. Drum was gone, and his young men, and the rest of the Hunkpapa, or most of them, had long ago come to accept Chance as a part of their camp; he was Medicine Gun; even the Minneconjou who were there did not protest his presence, remembering him from before, from the camp before the march, from the march, from Wounded Knee. Indeed, though Chance did not understand it at the time, the fact that he had been at Wounded Knee, with them, was important to these people. They would say to one another, in years afterward, when a child might ask, or a stranger, “Yes, Medicine Gun, he was with us at Wounded Knee.”
“Welcome, Medicine Gun,” said Old Bear.
Chance nodded, sitting cross-legged near the chief. “Where is Drum?” he asked, as casually as he could manage.
“You were followed by two men,” said Old Bear. “Drum has gone to get them.” The old man had spoken simply, as though what he had said had been a matter of course.
“Drum didn’t pass us,” said Chance.
“He passed you,” said Old Bear.
Chance looked at Running Horse. The young Indian smiled. “Yes, my Brother,” he said, “it is true.”
“We led someone into a trap?” asked Chance.
“Yes,” said Old Bear.
There was little doubt in Chance’s mind who the two men who had followed would be.
The beat of the tom-tom, incessant, seemed to throb in his bones and flesh.
He felt a strange mixture of swift, unclear, irresistible emotions, pleasure, cruelty, pity, relief, apprehension, confusion, difficulty.
Somehow, in a moment, perhaps paradoxically, he found himself hoping that Totter and Grawson might escape; he knew they would not.
Chance did not envy a man the death which the Sioux might contrive.
Suddenly the tom-tom stopped.
The silence, save for the noise of the fire, startled Chance.
He followed the eyes of the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou to the opening of a blanket shelter stretched between sticks at the foot of the rock wall to his right.
A thin Hunkpapa woman, with a sharp stick, her narrow face disfigured with four mourning wounds, prodded a wretched, stumbling figure from the shelter, a slim, blond girl who fell in the snow.
Chance felt the hand of Running Horse tight on his arm.
The thin woman jabbed the girl twice with the stick and then, using it as a club, struck her several times across the shoulders as she struggled to rise.
Lucia Turner now stood on her feet, but unsteadily, her hands reaching out, trying to keep from falling again.
Her feet had been bound, Chance surmised; it was hard for her to walk.
Lucia was looking at the fire.
Her eyes were wide with fear.
She stood still in the snow, trembling, rubbing with numb, stiff fingers the bruised flesh of her wrists. Chance could see, clearly visible against the white skin, the deep, red burns of rawhide strands.
She had been put in Indian clothing, moccasins and a dress of deerskin. Her hair had been braided behind her back, tied with two strings of cheap glass beads. Chance judged she wore nothing beneath the deerskin. She had not even a blanket to clutch about herself. There probably weren’t enough blankets even for the Indians.
The girl shuddered though whether from fear or cold, or both, Chance did not know.
He wondered if the girl had been brought out to be killed.
Neither of them knew.
They will have to kill both of us, thought Chance, both.
The thin woman struck Lucia again across the back with the stick, sharply, viciously, but Lucia did not cry out. Then the woman, thrusting with the stick, prodded her toward the fire before the men.
Lucia did not cry, and Chance felt proud of her for that.
He also felt helpless.
When Lucia stumbled into the circle of firelight, she saw Chance.
She seemed stunned; her lips moved as though to say his name; then she looked away; that she might not appear to know him; that she might not involve him in whatever might happen to her.
She is magnificent, thought Chance. I love her.
He regarded her, his face expressionless, giving no sign of recognition.
Old Bear addressed the girl. “White Woman,” said he, “how did you come here?”
Lucia looked at him. Old Bear knew this as well as she. The thin woman jabbed Lucia sharply with the stick. “I was brought here,” she said.
“How were you brought here?” asked Old Bear sternly.
Lucia looked at him, bewildered.