The colonel, a mild, strong man, shuffled clumsily through the papers on his desk. He had big hands, rough from wind and riding, hands more for the hilt of a saber than the impedimenta of an office. Chance sat across from him in the small room, thinking what a difference there was between this gentle, strong man and the impatient, antagonistic martinet he had seen at Wounded Knee.
“Mr. Chance,” the colonel was saying, “some weeks ago I put one of my men, Corporal Jacob Totter, on special orders to a Mr. Lester Grawson, who presented the credentials of a Charleston law officer, in order to assist in the apprehension and arrest of an alleged murderer believed to be in hiding on Standing Rock-a Mr. Edward Chance.” The colonel looked up. “You admit that you are he?” he asked.
Chance nodded, stared at the papers.
“For my own satisfaction, however,” the colonel went on, “and because I deemed it of possible importance for our records, should the arrest actually take place on the reservation, I wrote to Charleston for certain information, the dating of the charge, its specifics, the records relating to the case.” A half smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I learned to my surprise,” he said, “that no formal charges whatsoever had ever been filed in Charleston against a Mr. Edward Chance, neither those of murder nor any lesser crime. I further learned that Mr. Lester Grawson, though he had once been a detective with the Charleston police force, had resigned that position several months ago and no longer held any official post or appointment with that city.”
Chance nodded. “I thought it was that way,” he said.
The colonel held up a letter. “This is the commissioner’s letter,” he said, “should you care to read it.”
Chance shook his head. “No,” he said.
“What was he after?” asked the colonel.
“Me,” said Chance.
“A vendetta of some sort?”
“Yes,” said Chance.
“But the act, as I understand it,” said the colonel, “took place in a duel of some sort?”
“Yes,” said Chance, “-in a stupid duel.”
“That made no difference to Grawson?”
“No,” said Chance.
The colonel leaned back in his chair, looked across the room at a map. Chance had seen it when he had come in; it was a map of North and South Dakota, with elevations marked; the Missouri divided the map, tributaries feeding into it, the Cannonball, the Porcupine, the Grand; the reservations were clearly indicated, and military installations; in the lower left-hand corner of the map Chance had seen the Bad Lands, Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee Creek.
“I cannot approve of duels,” said the colonel.
“I’m surprised,” said Chance.
“Why?” asked the colonel, himself surprised.
“You’re a soldier,” said Chance.
“I don’t understand,” said the colonel.
“A duel,” said Chance, “seems much to me like a war-between men.”
The colonel regarded him. “Sometimes,” he said, “one must fight.”
“Yes,” said Chance. “I think so.”
“And a war, I suppose,” said the colonel, “is a duel-between nations.”
“It seems so,” said Chance. “Pretty much.”
“It is permissible for nations to fight,” said the colonel, “but not for men.”
“I’ll believe that,” said Chance, smiling, “the first time I see nations fight-and men stay home.”
“War,” said the colonel, “is an institution developed by civilization for the adjudication of differences by the arbitration of arms.”
“So is a duel,” said Chance.
“We can outlaw duels,” said the colonel.
“That’s the difference,” said Chance.
“Ah,” said the colonel.
“I don’t much approve of duels either,” said Chance.
The colonel smiled, and looked up at the ceiling, at the kerosene lamp that hung on a chain there. Then he looked back at Chance. He wasn’t angry. “Sometime though,” said the colonel, “one must fight.”
“Yes,” said Chance, “I think so.”
The colonel scratched one ear, looked out the small window in the office, past the porch outside, to the parade ground. “I understand you’re going to be married,” he said.
“Yes,” said Chance.
“Fine institution-marriage,” said the colonel.
“Yes,” said Chance. “I hope so.” He smiled to himself. They had just been discussing wars and duels as institutions.
The colonel was looking up at the lamp again, and then he suddenly looked down at Chance.
“Did you know,” he asked, “that most of the other bands of Sioux and Cheyenne came in because they heard the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou got through safely?”
“No,” said Chance, “but I’m glad.”
“Hundreds of lives were saved,” said the colonel.
“I’m glad,” said Chance.
“I understand you were in the Bad Lands with the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou,” said the colonel.
“For a time,” said Chance.
The colonel was looking off through the window again, lost in thought. “They seem to respect you,” he said. “They seem to trust you.”
Chance said nothing.