Ghost Dance (28 page)

Chance said nothing.

"All this," said Old Bear, opening his frail arms as if to embrace the prairie and the directions and the stars over his head, "from the great forests of the north to the Father of Rivers was once the land of the people." The old man then rested his hands on the mane of his pony, but he still did not look at Chance, but rather continued to survey what had once been his domain, the domain of the Dakota, the people of the seven council fires, of the Sioux.

"The white man came," said Old Bear, "and with the knives pulled by horses cut our land open, turning the high, sweet grass to dust. He made the streams of our country dirty. He killed the buffalo. He killed the antelope."

Chance was looking out across the prairie, not wanting to say anything, not being able to say anything.

"The white man," said Old Bear, "does not love this land."

Chance turned to look at the old man, so thin, his white braids tied with string, his back straight, his head high, held with pride and anger.

"I love this land," said Old Bear.

"I know," said Chance.

"Tonight," said Old Bear, "is the birthnight of the Son of Wakan-Tonka."

"Christmas Eve," said Chance.

Old Bear turned and looked at Chance. "The Son of Wakan-Tonka," said Old Bear, "said that all men are brothers, that they should love one another, that the warrior should bless and love his enemy."

"Yes," said Chance, "I have read that."

"Why does the white man not do as the Son of Wakan-Tonka has asked?"

"I don't know," said Chance.

"The soldiers will come and kill us," said Old Bear, "but it will not be easy for them." The old man spoke almost as if thinking aloud. He looked again across the prairie. "Many soldiers will die, but in the end, the people will die." Old Bear turned to Chance. "I am ready to die," he said. "I am old. I have fought many times. I have worn the eagle feather." Then the old man's eyes seemed infinitely sad as they rested on Chance. "But," said he, "I do not want the people to die–I do not want the Dakota to die."

"Maybe," said Chance, "there will be peace."

"Do you think so, Medicine Gun?" asked Old Bear.

"No," said Chance.

"I would like to make a last feast," said Old Bear, "a feast on the night that the Son of Wakan-Tonka is born." He smiled. "Long ago on such a night I might have given horses and buffalo robes and bullets but tonight, on the night the Son of Wakan-Tonka is born, I have nothing."

Chance noticed something on the prairie that made him lean forward in the saddle, straining his eyes. He wished Running Horse were here, for the young Indian's eyesight was unusually keen. There was a light in the distance, like a small star on the prairie.

"What is it?" asked Old Bear.

"I think there is a light down there," said Chance.

"Soldiers?" asked Old Bear.

"I don't think so," said Chance. "Probably a soddy. It's steady and small, not like a campfire. Probably a kerosene lamp."

Chance remembered the money he had, folded in a piece of oilcloth thrust in his boot, probably more than a hundred dollars.

If that were a house maybe he could buy some food.

"Yes," said Old Bear, "it is a lodge made from the dirt of the land; my young men have told me; there is a man there and his woman, and two children."

"The light," said Chance, "looks a bit like a star–out there on the grass of the prairie."

"A star?" asked Old Bear.

"On this night," said Chance, "the Son of Wakan-Tonka is born."

"Huh!" said Old Bear. "Let us ride!"

So the two men, leaning back on their horses, urged the mounts down the alkaline declivity to the prairie, the dust like white clouds rising behind them, and began to ride slowly toward the light in the distance.

Call it a star, said Chance to himself, call it a star.

For a quarter of an hour they rode, not speaking, through frosted brown grass until they had approached the light, which came from a kerosene lamp that burned in the thick window of a homesteader's soddy.

"He does not know we are here," said Old Bear, "or he would put out the light."

Chance dismounted and went to the door of the soddy.

Old Bear, still mounted, holding the reins of Chance's horse, waited a few yards from the door, out of the range of light that would fall when the door was opened.

Chance knocked on the pine door of the soddy.

There was a sudden scuffling of chairs thrust back, and the lamp went out.

Chance stood there, then decided to move to one side of the door, in case anyone fired through it.

He heard the breaking open of a shotgun, and after a second, its snapping shut, and was pleased that he had stepped aside.

Then there came a voice from inside, from somewhere behind the door, but not straight behind it, calling out, "Who's out there?"

"My name is Edward Smith," said Chance. "I'm a friend. I'm a stranger. I'm passing through." He stood there for a time, listening. Then he added, for good measure, paying his respects to the holiday, "Merry Christmas."

The door swung open a bit, moved by someone he couldn't see.

"Step into the door, Mister," said a voice.

"I don't aim to get shot," said Chance.

"I don't either," said the voice.

"All right," said Chance. And he stepped to the threshold of the soddy.

He found himself looking down the two barrels of a shotgun.

"Merry Christmas," said a voice.

"Right," said Chance. "Merry Christmas."

For a time he was studied in the half darkness, and then the voice, speaking to someone he couldn't see, said, "Light the lamp."

Chance heard the globe of the lamp being lifted off, and the tiny sound of the knob on its side being turned, thrusting up an inch of wick, and then heard the scratching of a match, and saw briefly the interior of the soddy, the chairs and shelves, a clock on a table against one wall, then lost it as the match went out, then regained it as the wick took the fire and the globe was replaced.

A thin woman, angular with prematurely gray hair, held the lamp up.

She had thin lips, gray eyes, strong, chapped hand's. She wore a cotton dress, plaid with large pockets on the sides, a man's shoes.

The man himself had a round, grizzled face, not unfriendly, but wary and curious. The bottom half of his face was as bristly as a hog's back. His head and neck protruded from the collar, a bit too large, of a red, wool shirt, most probably a present.

"Howdy," he said.

"Howdy," said Chance.

"You hungry?" he asked, lowering the barrel of the shotgun.

"Yes," said Chance.

"My name is Sam Carter," said the man, but looking beyond Chance to Old Bear.

"Pleased to meet you," said Chance.

"That's an Injun," said Sam Carter, jerking his head toward Old Bear.

"He's my friend," said Chance.

Sam Carter looked Chance over more carefully, not seeing any hat, noticing the folded blanket Chance carried over his left shoulder, an Indian blanket.

"You hungry?" asked Carter.

"Sure am," said Chance. "My friend, too."

"If you want," said Carter, slowly, "you can eat with us."

"Thanks," said Chance.

"Not him," said Carter.

"Why not?" asked Chance.

"He's Injun," said Carter.

"I'm only passing through," said Chance, "with my friend." He looked at Carter, not angrily, more depressed than anything. "I can't stop. I can buy food."

Chance saw two boys now, standing behind their mother. One might have been five, the other seven. Both had bushy brown hair, cut straight around their head with a bowl and shears. Both wore bib overalls, heavy shirts and socks. Behind their shirt collars, which were open, Chance could see the soiled collars of long underwear, buttoned shut, but beyond this stitched closed for the winter.

"What kind of food you want?" asked Carter. "We ain't got much."

"What do you have?" asked Chance.

"I'm not selling any cattle," said Carter.

"What do you have?" asked Chance.

"In a coop out back," said Carter, "I got some chickens, a couple of turkeys."

"I'll buy all you have to sell," said Chance.

One of the boys, the older, had slipped past his father and went to look at Old Bear, who looked down at him impassively.

"What you doing on our land, Injun?" asked the boy.

Old Bear looked down at him. "My horse brought me," he said. "My horse did not know it was your land."

"All right," said the boy, "you can stay."

"Thank you," said Old Bear.

"Come in here!" said his mother sharply.

The boy came back to the soddy, fast.

"How in hell much you want?" asked Carter. "Enough for two?"

"About all you have I want," said Chance.

Carter looked at him suspiciously, and then at Old Bear behind him.

"I heard Sitting Bull got killed up at Standing Rock," he said.

"I heard that, too," said Chance.

"Plenty of Injuns, whole packs of 'em, pulled off the reservations right afterwards, I heard," said Carter. "Some jumped from way down in Pine Ridge. From what I hear, some of the Cheyenne even bolted the Cheyenne River Reservation."

"I didn't know that," said Chance.

"I ain't seen no Injuns come past here," said Carter.

Chance was quiet.

"But I did see a parcel of soldier fellers," said Carter.

"Oh?" said Chance.

"Yeh," said Carter, "and one of 'em rode over here and asked me about Injuns, but I hadn't seen 'em, and he said that all the Injuns what come in peaceful will get a pardon for going off the reservation. There's going to be a powwow at Pine Ridge Agency. You know where that is?"

"No," said Chance.

"I know the place," said Old Bear, speaking in Sioux. "It is past the hunting ground of Wounded Knee, where buffalo used to come to drink." The old man seemed lost in thought. Then he raised his head and looked at Chance. "Do you think the soldiers tell the truth?" he asked.

"What's he want to know?" asked Carter.

Chance, paying no attention to Carter, turned and addressed Old Bear in the language the old man had chosen to speak. "I do not know," he said, "but it would be good if it were true."

"Yes," said Old Bear, "it would be good."

"The soldier feller," said Carter, "said Big Foot's bunch is already on its way back to surrender."

"Did you hear?" asked Chance of Old Bear.

"Big Foot is a good chief," said Old Bear, in Sioux, "he is wise. If he thinks the soldiers tell the truth, he may be right."

Chance went to stand beside Old Bear's horse and together they spoke in Sioux.

"Will the Hunkpapa fight?" asked Chance.

Old Bear grunted. "Some will fight, I think," he said. "Drum will fight."

"But the Hunkpapa?" pressed Chance.

"The Hunkpapa," said Old Bear, "are men–not boys– men do not fight just to die."

"What about the Holy War?" asked Chance. "What about Sitting Bull?"

"I think," said Old Bear, "there should be no Holy War. Kicking Bear said that the Messiah told us He would come in the spring. He did not tell us to fight in the winter. He wanted us to dance and wait for Him."

Old Bear looked down at the ground.

"And we cannot make Sitting Bull be alive by killing all the Hunkpapa. Sitting Bull would not kill his people. I will not kill them. The buffalo are gone. There will be snow. If we do not go back the people will die of hunger, or the horse soldiers will find them and kill them."

"You are a wise man," said Chance.

Old Bear looked at him. "If I were young," he said, "and if I were not chief, I do not think I would go back."

"But," said Chance, "you are a father of the Hunkpapa, wise with many winters, and you are a chief."

"The Hunkpapa will go back," said Old Bear.

Chance without thinking grasped the old man's arm and squeezed it. "Good," said Chance. "Good!"

Old Bear smiled.

"I hope so," he said. "I hope so, Medicine Gun."

Chance turned to Carter. "We are going to make a feast," he said. "I will buy your chickens and turkeys."

"All of 'em?" asked Carter.

"I guess so," said Chance. "How many do you have?"

"Twenty chickens," said Carter, "two turkeys."

"I'll buy them," said Chance, reaching inside his right boot for the oilcloth wrapper.

"There's Injuns around here, ain't there, Mister?" said Carter.

"It's hard to tell," said Chance.

"How come you talk Injun?" asked Carter.

"Learned some," said Chance. "I really speak it very poorly."

"Who are you?"

"I call myself Edward Smith," said Chance.

Chance took ten dollars out of the oilcloth wrapper, thrust the wrapper back in his boot, smoothed out the bill and handed it to Carter.

Carter looked at it. "Thet's too much money," he said.

Chance shrugged.

"Git the coffee can," said Carter to his wife.

She brought the can and Carter, fishing about in some bills, and more change, put together about five dollars and gave it to Chance, who poured it in his pocket.

The transaction completed, Carter said to Chance, "You can come in if you want and eat with us, if you want. We'd be pleased to have you."

"What about my friend?" asked Chance.

"He's Injun," said Carter.

"I'll get the chickens and turkeys," said Chance.

"Want any help?" asked Carter.

"Thanks, no," said Chance.

"Merry Christmas," said Carter.

"Merry Christmas," said his wife.

"Merry Christmas, Mister," said the two children.

"Merry Christmas," said Chance and turned away as the door shut.

Chance walked over to Old Bear. "Tonight," he said, "we will have a feast."

"Your feast," said Old Bear.

"No," said Chance. "Our feast–the feast of Old Bear and Medicine Gun, his friend."

"It will be a good feast," said Old Bear.

"It will be a good feast," agreed Chance.

Chance then turned and walked around the corner of the soddy, heading for the back where the coop was.

As he turned about the back corner of the soddy an Indian leaped out of the darkness swinging at him with a long-handled hatchet.