In the center of the room, at a scarred, blackened table, a six-gun laid heavily before him, sat Grawson.
Lucia screamed.
Grawson picked up the weapon.
Chance wore a pistol at his belt. It had been Totter’s and given to him by one of Drum’s braves, after Drum had died. The young man hadn’t wanted it. It had been a gift to Medicine Gun, because of whom the Hunkpapa and Minneconjou were to return in peace to Standing Rock. But the pistol might as well have been back in the Bad Lands, or a thousand miles away, or on the dust of the moon.
“Unbuckle your gun belt,” said Grawson.
“No,” said Lucia. “No.” She shook her head. “He saved your life,” she said.
The side of Grawson’s face twitched minutely, but then it was again heavy and calm.
Chance’s gun belt fell to the dirt floor.
Lucia looked at it wildly.
“Tell her not to interfere,” said Grawson, “or I will shoot her dead.”
“Stay out of it,” said Chance to the girl.
“Back up and put your hands up,” said Grawson, getting out of the chair at the table.
Chance did so and Grawson removed the pistol from Chance’s fallen holster, thrusting it in his own belt.
He doesn’t want to shoot me in front of the woman, thought Chance.
Grawson looked at Lucia, and his face jerked ugly with annoyance.
But the pistol was steady in the strong hand, covering Chance.
Grawson seemed to be too conscious of Lucia; the side of his face moved twice.
Good God, thought Chance, he’s thinking about killing us both.
“Let’s go,” said Chance, brusquely. “Lucia,” he ordered, “stay here-don’t follow.”
“No,” she said.
“Do it,” said Chance, savagely.
“No,” she said. “I won’t leave you.”
“Do it,” yelled Chance, “you dumb bitch! He’ll kill us both!”
Grawson shook his head violently. “No,” he said. “You’re the killer, not me!”
Chance looked at him puzzled. Lucia was crying. “I’m sorry, Lucia,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“He’ll kill you,” she said.
“I am the law,” said Grawson. “I do not swerve. I do not yield. I am an eagle with arrows in my claws.”
The side of his face moved, spasmlike.
Suddenly Lucia looked at him, and said, very clearly. “No. you are not.”
The pistol swung between Chance and Lucia, then back to Chance.
“I know all about you,” said Lucia.
“For God’s sake, shut up,” said Chance.
“You don’t know anything,” said Grawson.
“I know it was a fair fight,” said Lucia. “A duel.”
Chance had spoken of these matters with her in the Carter soddy, and later at the camp of Old Bear. He had told her about Clare, the duel, the rest. She had wanted to know. She had had to know.
“No,” said Grawson defensively. “It wasn’t fair.”
“Why not?” demanded Lucia.
“Frank didn’t shoot,” said Grawson. “He didn’t fire.”
“Why not?” demanded Lucia.
“Shut up!” screamed Grawson at her.
Chance was puzzled; it was true that Frank Grawson had not fired; he would have fired but he had not had the chance; he had been bringing up his arm to fire, bringing it up easily, as in target practice; he had lifted his arm easily; he had been in no hurry; Frank Grawson had not fired; he had not had a chance to fire; before his gun was level with his chest Chance had shot and killed him.
“Frank wasn’t pushing,” said Chance. “He never got a chance to fire.” He looked steadily at Grawson. “Why not?” he asked.
Grawson looked at him, tears in his eyes, the gun suddenly wavering.
Good God, thought Chance to himself, I know.
“I told him you wouldn’t fire,” said Grawson, whispering.
Chance shivered. Lucia stood quietly.
“Why did you tell him that?” asked Chance.
“I loved my brother,” said Grawson.
Suddenly it seemed to Chance that something had formed, coming whole from pieces the nature of which he had only barely suspected before.
There had been Clare Henderson, silken Clare, the broken engagement, the fiery suitor Frank, eager to avenge her honor, and in the background, always, cumbersome, conscientious Lester, the older brother. It had been a joke, that they had been brothers, supple, swift, witty, laughing Frank, and dull Lester, as imaginative as a clod of mud, but as dependable, as honest as a rock. How many times had Lester managed to win Frank’s fights for him, to take the blame for him, to preserve him as the darling of his parents and neighbors; and then once, somehow, this clumsy, large man had, from afar, fallen in love with a beautiful woman; Chance could remember the laughter of Clare, and Frank, as they had spoken of Lester, made him the butt of their jokes; Chance could remember that in those days he had felt sorry for Lester Grawson, hopeless Lester; but it had been a long time since Chance had felt sorry for Lester Grawson, a long time.
“I loved my brother,” mumbled Grawson. “I loved him.”
“Why did you tell your brother that he wouldn’t fire?” asked Lucia.
Grawson’s face moved uncontrollably. “It was dishonorable for Chance to fire,” he said. “Chance was in the wrong-he should have stood there-stood there-I thought he was honorable, that he would only stand there-he was in the wrong-he should not have fired!”
Chance laughed.
Grawson looked at him, enraged. The hammer moved back on the pistol.
“You’re a lawman,” said Chance. “You were then.” He looked at Grawson. “You knew more about men and living and dying than Frank ever found out-you were smarter than Frank ever was-Frank was a fool.”
Grawson looked at him strangely. “No,” he said, “Frank was smarter-always smarter.”
“You knew men,” said Chance. “You knew I’d fire.”
Grawson looked at him, tears streaming down his face.
“No,” he said, “I believed it-I didn’t think you’d fire.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Lucia.
“Be quiet,” said Chance. “For God’s sake, be quiet.”
“It’s true,” yelled Grawson, “it’s true!”
“No,” said Lucia, calmly, “it is not.”
“Please shut up, Lucia,” begged Chance. “For God’s sake, shut up.”
“Nonsense,” said Lucia, and her voice was very clear and very calm, like knives of logic, and it sounded irritatingly prim, very school-teacherish; Grawson had probably heard such a voice, as had Chance, a thousand times in his youth, in a dozen classrooms, from a dozen righteous women instructing him, correcting him, pointing out his errors. “It seems to me quite clear,” said Lucia, “that you are confused on this matter.” She paused. “It also seems to me unlikely that you really entertained a serious affection for your brother.”
“I loved him!” yelled Grawson, sweating, his face jerking, the gun in his hand trembling.
“Shut up!” yelled Chance to the girl.
“Perhaps your parents wished you to do so,” said Lucia, “or perhaps you felt it was your duty, but I regard it as quite unlikely that you actually did so.”
“I loved him!” screamed Grawson.
“Is that why you killed him?” she asked.
There was an awful silence in the room, and in the world. It seemed not even the wind moved outside the soddy.
Slowly Grawson turned to face Lucia, numbly.
Chance, his hands up, tensed, wondering if he could reach the large man. The risk. Lucia.
“I didn’t kill him,” he said, like a little boy.