“I think my Brother is right,” said Running Horse, now speaking for the first time. “I think what he says is hard to hear but I think it is true.”
Old Bear looked thoughtful.
“Are the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou afraid to fight?” cried Drum.
“No,” said Chance, looking at Drum, speaking very quietly. “They are not afraid. They have proved their courage to everyone, to me, to the Long Knives, to themselves. It is only Drum who asks if they are afraid. If anyone thinks they are afraid it is only Drum.”
As one man the Indians regarded Drum.
“No,” said Drum, looking down, “I do not think the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou are afraid-they are warriors.”
Chance turned to the Indians. “If you go on fighting and killing you will take more scalps, you will kill more white men, more Long Knives, but in the end you must lose-there are too many to fight. If your women are to bear children and live you must live in the world with the white men.”
“In the spring,” said one of the Indians, a Minneconjou, “the Messiah will come and kill all the white men.”
“The Messiah,” said Chance, “taught peace and forgiveness.”
Old Bear looked at him. “The Messiah,” he said, speaking as much to himself as to Chance or the others, “taught that all men should love one another.” He regarded Chance. Then, to Chance’s surprise, he said slowly, repeating them from memory, the words, “Blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall find peace.”
Chance stood, stunned.
“Those are good words,” said one of the Indians.
“Who is to know if they are true words?” asked Old Bear.
No one spoke.
“I think,” said Chance, “if you go back, you will find they are true words. I think the white man will have a heavy heart because of Wounded Knee. I do not think he really wants to fight the Hunkpapa, the Minneconjou.”
“If you go back,” said Drum, “you will be killed. The white man showed how he loved his Indian brothers at Wounded Knee.”
“If we stay in the Bad Lands,” said Old Bear, “we will starve or be killed by soldiers.”
“If we are going to die,” said Drum, “it is the way of the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou to die fighting.” He did not speak arrogantly; he was reminding them of a fact.
“That is true,” said Old Bear, “if we are going to die we will die in war. That is the way of the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou-the way of the Oglala and the Brule-the way of all the Sioux, the seven council fires, the people-the way of the riders of painted horses, the way of men who wear the feathers of eagles.”
The Indians grunted their assent.
“It is true,” said Chance. “It is well known that the riders of painted horses and the men who wear the feathers of eagles can die with bravery, but I say to such men, whom I respect as my brothers, sometimes it takes more courage to remove the paint from your horses and take from your hair the feathers of eagles. Sometimes it takes more courage to live than to die. It is easy to fight, but your people will die; it is hard to go back, but your people will live.”
“How do you know this thing, Medicine Gun?” asked one of the Sioux.
“I do not know it,” said Chance, “but I think it is true – I think it is true that if you go back in peace you will be received in peace.”
“I will never go back,” said Drum. “I will never take from my hair the feather of an eagle.”
Chance looked to the other Indians. “If you go back in peace,” he said, “it is my belief you will be received in peace.”
The Indians looked to one another, and then to Old Bear. They were quiet.
“It is a hard thing to know,” said Old Bear.
The old Indian then left the group and went to stand near the ashes of the ceremonial fire. He looked up into the gray sky, and standing lifted his hands to the sky. Then, after so standing for perhaps a minute, he returned to the group. “Wakan-Tonka will decide,” said Old Bear.
Lucia Turner was brought from the blanket shelter, led by one of Drum’s warriors, accompanied by another. The strap which had bound her ankles had been removed and fastened, like a halter, about her neck. The girl’s wrists were still lashed behind her back, as securely as they had been the night before. The two braves had removed Totter’s greatcoat.
Lucia looked at Chance, frightened.
“I do not understand the meaning of Old Bear,” said Chance.
Old Bear pointed to Lucia. “Whose is this woman?” he asked.
“She is my woman,” said Chance.
“No,” said Drum.
“As warriors of the Hunkpapa you will fight,” said Old Bear, addressing both Drum and Chance. “But you will fight for more than this woman. If Drum wins, the woman is his, and the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou will take the warpath. If Medicine Gun wins, the woman is his, and the Hunkpapa and the Minneconjou will go in peace to the reservation.”
“Wakan-Tonka will decide,” said Drum.
Drum took the rifle which he had taken from Grawson, and five cartridges. Old Bear gave Chance the rifle that had been Totter’s, and five cartridges.
“I must kill you, Medicine Gun,” said Drum, “for my people.” He looked at Chance. “My heart is heavy,” he said, placing a cartridge into the weapon.
“If I die,” said Chance, loading his weapon, “I am proud that it will be by the hand of Drum, who is like Kills-His-Horse, his father, a great warrior.”
Drum regarded Chance, no enmity or hostility in his face. “My heart is heavy,” he said, impassively, and then turned and, rifle in hand, disappeared into the arroyo at the head of the camp.
Chance waited a few minutes, feeling cold.
He looked at Lucia.
At a sign from Old Bear the brave who held the strap knotted about her neck permitted her to approach Chance. She did so and, standing near to him, lifted her lips to his, kissing him lightly. Her lips felt cool. “I love you, Edward Chance,” she said. Chance kissed her and then, carrying Totters rifle, began to walk slowly toward the long, winding arroyo. Somewhere ahead, down that path, Drum was waiting for him.
Chance trudged down the arroyo, wading through the snow; in places it had drifted to his knees.
He saw Drum’s tracks ahead of him, extending indefinitely.
If I were Drum, Chance asked himself, how would I fight this?
His eyes searched the top ledges of the arroyo. That’s it, thought Chance, I’d make tracks for a way down the arroyo until I came to a bend; then I’d double back above the arroyo; when he passed under me, I’d shoot. Chance shivered a little. Drum might already be above and behind him. Chance paused, listened, heard nothing. Everything was still, white, rugged, calm, desolate.
He looked up the side of the arroyo. It was about nine feet above him on both sides. He began to climb, carefully, not wanting to kick loose much snow; even a soft sound would carry on the cold winter air.
Near the top Chance paused, wished he had a hat to lift over the top of the arroyo on his rifle barrel; then he thought it wouldn’t work; Drum would probably suspect such a trick; even if he did not, he would not be likely to fire until he had a fair, clean shot; shivering, Chance lifted his head just over the top of the arroyo, clearing it only to the level of his eyes.