He wondered if it had been honor that had sent him there, cutting the big man free. He doubted it. He thought rather it might have been, incredibly enough, pity, perhaps the memory of the screams of Totter.
Pity?
Grawson would have hated that.
He had given Grawson his Colt, unloaded, and a handful of bullets.
“You’re a fool,” the big man had said, taking the weapon, the bullets.
Perhaps, thought Chance, perhaps I am a fool, but perhaps there is some difference.
I saw, as you did not, what was done to Totter.
Edward Chance, though he rode with the Hunkpapa, though he was used to the weight of a weapon at his thigh, the precision steel of a device for killing, had seen enough, had seen too much; never again, if he could help it, would a man die as Totter had, no matter who the man might be, Grawson or any other, stranger or mortal enemy.
And yet if this simply, this alone, was his motivation, he found it hard to understand what he had said to Grawson. He had said simply, knowing he would meet this man again, “I do not let the Hunkpapa do my killing.”
The big man had disappeared from the brush shelter.
Chance remained behind, to meet Drum, to fight for a woman-whom he could not keep even should he win her.
There was the scream, announcing the discovery.
The thin woman, she with the scabs of mourning wounds crusted on her face, had crept to Grawson’s brush shelter, to be the first to taunt the prisoner.
Her shriek awakened the camp.
She scrambled among the blanket shelters and the snowy figures of sleeping warriors curled like dogs in the snow, pulling at them with long fingers, jabbing them, shaking them, screaming. Then she stood in the center of the camp, almost over Totter’s corpse, holding Grawson’s severed bonds in her fists, shaking them like snakes, looking at the gray sky, howling in disappointment.
Warriors sprang up bewildered, some angry, some looking about as if to see soldiers on the cliffs or the horses gone. The startled shrill voices of the squaws pierced the bedlam, ringing from the stone walls of the canyon.
Then suddenly the camp fell quiet.
Chance, not looking or paying much attention, felt them turn toward him, then heard the movement of dozens of moccasined feet on the snow, coming towards him.
He stood up, getting himself out of the blanket. He picked it up by one corner, straightened it out and began to fold it into neat squares.
When the blanket was folded Chance dropped it to the ground and looked at the Indians.
Their eyes were not pleasant.
It suddenly occurred to Chance that they might expect him to take Grawson’s place. He hadn’t even thought of that. He did not much care to think of it now.
He met Old Bear’s eyes. The old man’s gaze was stern. “The red-haired man is gone,” he said.
“I set him free,” said Chance.
Anger swept through the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou clustered about him; it was almost like a wind shaking branches, or the sudden, surprising shock that can move between animal and animal in a herd or pack when a stranger is suddenly, unexpectedly confronted.
“I’m sorry,” said Chance.
“Why did you do this?” asked Old Bear.
Chance thought about it. “I didn’t want you to kill him,” he said.
“There is still a white man,” said the thin woman.
She meant Chance. Bless you, thought Chance, unkindly.
“Why did you let him go?” asked Old Bear, still not satisfied.
“There has been enough killing,” said Chance.
Drum pushed forward. “We can still catch him,” he said. “I have looked at the prints. He bit through a picket rope and took a horse, but the prints are fresh.”
“Do not go after him,” said Chance.
“Why not?” asked Drum.
“He is armed,” said Chance. “I gave him my gun. By now he is on the prairie and you cannot surprise him. He is dangerous. He may kill someone.”
Drum moved as though to leave.
“Wait,” said Old Bear. “There is time.” He was looking at Chance closely.
Drum chafed with impatience.
Chance looked at him. “Are we not to fight?” he asked.
Drum glared at him, angrily.
Old Bear, regarding Chance, shook his head. “I do not think it is a good thing you have done,” he said.
“Old Bear,” said Chance, “is wiser than I and he may be right, but I do not think so.” Chance looked at the Indians. “There has been killing at Grand River,” he said, “at Wounded Knee, and on the prairie.” He pointed to the stiff, angular figure of Totter. “There has been killing here.” He looked at Old Bear. “Has there not been enough of killing?”
“No,” said Drum.
Chance looked at him.
Drum turned to the Indians. “What of Wounded Knee?” he asked. “Medicine Gun says there has been enough killing, but Drum says there has been enough killing of the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou, not enough of white men.” Drum regarded the Indians. “Drum,” he said, “does not forget Wounded Knee.” He pointed to the thin woman with the scabbed mourning wounds on her narrow face. “Where is your brave and your son?” he asked. “Wounded Knee,” she said, looking at Chance. Then Drum, over and over, jabbed the Indians with his words, reminding each of loved ones lost at Wounded Knee, men, wives, sons, daughters, children, infants. There was almost no one present who had not lost at least one member of his family at Wounded Knee. The Indians began to stamp with rage, awaiting Drum to address them individually. And as each in turn cried “Wounded Knee!” in answer to his question, the others repeated it, and soon in Chance’s ears rang a violent, enraged chorus, “Wounded Knee! Wounded Knee! Wounded Knee!” Then Drum cried out, “All the blood of all the white men in the world will not make up for Wounded Knee!”
The Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou grunted their assent.
Then the Indians were silent, regarding Chance.
He would speak very quietly. “Drum,” he said, “is right. All the blood of all the white men in the world cannot make up for Wounded Knee. The white men can never make up for Wounded Knee.” Then Chance paused. “But the stain of blood,” he said, “cannot be made clean with more blood.”