Chance wondered where Old Bear was leading him, and why. For a long time they rode.
Chance’s mind seemed to drift as had the smoke of the pipe.
In spite of himself, he found himself thinking again of Lucia Turner, of the softness of her hair, the gentleness of her eye’s, of the delicacy of a wrist, of the sudden, unexpected smile, so shy and quick, then the sudden looking down, her laughing.
He was pleased to know that on this night, Christmas Eve, far from the cold, the hunger and the danger of the Bad Lands, she would be warm and safe, and happy, inside the thick walls of the soddy. The range would be hot and there would be coffee, maybe even a tiny evergreen in one corner decorated with ribbon and strings of popped corn; with its clip-on candles on the branches and a pail of water standing ready. He smiled to himself. He wondered what she would cook. Turkey, of course, if it were available. With dressing, and corn, and sliced apples, and biscuits and butter. He imagined her preparing the meal, setting the table, somehow for him. He imagined how she might look, wearing perhaps something dark, a dark blue, with a white collar, the dress protected by the white apron. Perhaps she might even wear yellow. He recalled having seen a few yards of yellow cloth in the soddy, and supposed she had intended to make something from it. Perhaps for spring, perhaps for her return to Saint Louis. Perhaps she had already left Standing Rock, perhaps already she had returned to the brick houses, the paved streets, the gas lamps of Saint Louis, a city. He wondered if, in the soddy, or in the comforts of distant, civilized Missouri, she would ever think of him, as he did of her, and then, angry, telling himself he was a fool, he put the thought of her from his mind.
At last Old Bear and Chance, emerging from a limestone draw, urged their mounts up a small white ridge, and surmounting this ridge, which lay at the edge of the Bad Lands, looked out across the prairie, which like a frosted ocean washed against the rocks of the Hunkpapa’s retreat.
Chance looked from the Bad Lands to the prairies beyond.
Old Bear, not lifting his finger above his head, nor looking up, pointed to the sky.
“There will soon be snow,” he said.
Chance nodded.
“There will be no food,” he said. “There is not enough shelter. The people will die.”
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 birth-night 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.