“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.”
Chapter Twenty-four
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.”
Fort Yates lay on the Missouri River, commanding the Standing Rock Indian Reservation.
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.”