Grawson was watching him, but he made no move to draw his weapon.
The two men stood facing one another.
“Draw,” said Chance.
Grawson would not move for his gun, but stood in the snow, almost to his knees, like a rock or a tree.
“I will fire one shot,” said Running Horse. “Then fight.”
“You hear that?” called Chance to Grawson.
Grawson, some twenty yards away, nodded.
Running Horse held the barrel of his rifle up, waited a moment and then fired a single shot.
The Colt moved cleanly, swiftly, from Chance’s holster, a draw as swift as red silk in the hands of a magician, emerging from nowhere to astonish and delight.
The bullet would have taken Grawson in the center of the chest.
But it was not fired.
At the last instant Chance saw, and managed to react; Grawson had not reached for his weapon; Chance nearly lost his balance; he caught himself in the snow, brought the gun up again; bringing the sight to bear between Grawson’s eyes, the center of his forehead.
“Shoot!” yelled Grawson.
Chance shivered.
Grawson had not reached for his gun.
“Shoot!” screamed Grawson, crouching down, clenching his fists.
“Shoot!” cried Lucia.
“He is yours,” said Running Horse. “Kill him”
“Shoot!” screamed Grawson.
Chance wavered. He was bewildered, startled, frightened. Grawson was out to prove something, not to Chance, or to the woman, or the Indian, but to himself, something that was more important to him than his life, something against which he held his life worthless.
Why had Grawson been calm when Chance could have killed him, or Running Horse; why had he been unafraid in the alley in New York, in the soddy when Running Horse was ready to blow a hole through the back of his neck?
Chance lowered the weapon, letting it hang at his side.
“Shoot, damn you!” yelled Grawson. “Shoot!”
“No,” said Chance. He looked across the snow toward Grawson. Then he was no longer confused, or frightened, or bewildered. It was then only that he clearly understood.
“Shoot!” yelled Grawson, pleading.
Chance looked at him, angrily. “I did your goddam killing once,” he yelled, “no more-no more!”
Grawson seemed to tremble in the snow. He had given Chance the opportunity to fire, to prove that it was he, and not Grawson, who was the killer; but Chance had not fired, he had not killed.
Why did I tell Frank he wouldn’t fire, Grawson agonized, why?
Because I didn’t think he would, Grawson screamed to himself. He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have.
Why not?
Where is Frank, his mother had asked.
Frank is dead, he had said, his voice crushed, but his heart, he had not forgotten, had then leaped with ugly pleasure, the bounding thrill of the joy of it, the pleasure, Frank dead, at last, Frank dead, Frank dead, dead, dead!
I will bring the man to justice who did this.
“Shoot!” screamed Grawson.
But the thin, pale man in the snow some yards away was only watching him. Then the man had returned his weapon to his holster, and started to trudge through the snow toward the soddy, leaving Grawson alone in the snow.
“Shoot!” screamed Grawson.
The man was walking away, not watching him. Grawson fumbled with his pistol, his hands shaking. He drew the weapon. The man had turned now. The Indian was leveling the rifle. The man pushed aside the barrel of the Indian’s weapon, and was now facing him, standing near the soddy.
Grawson tried to lift the weapon. With both hands he held it, shaking, pointing it toward Chance. The barrel moved wildly. The three of them were standing there, watching him. Tears streamed down Grawson’s face.
Then Chance, Lucia and Running Horse saw the big man turn in the snow and stand there, shaking, his head thrown back, the pistol clutched in his right hand.
Lester Grawson howled to the sky of Standing Rock, “I didn’t kill him, Mother!”
Then, sobbing, the big man fell to his knees in the snow.
The gunshot was loud.
Lucia screamed.
Chance and Running Horse ran to the body; it lay sprawled in the snow; the right side of its head was black from the powder; the bullet had entered slightly below and forward of the right temple; part of the skull was visible, the rest was red hair, blood, skin.
Chance turned to tell Lucia not to approach, but she was there, with them, looking down.
The girl looked at Chance. “Why?” she asked. “Why?”
“He was the law,” said Chance, “and he did not swerve-he did not yield.” Chance knelt beside the body, turning it on its back, closing the eyes gently with his thumb. “He was an eagle,” said Chance, “with arrows in his claws.”
Running Horse had wanted to scalp the body, cut it up a bit, take the boots and weapon, and leave it somewhere on the prairie, moving at night, not stopping until well off the reservation.
“No,” Chance had said, “I’ll take it to Fort Yates.”