“They want you to stay,” said Lucia.
“You could make things easier for all of us,” said the colonel.
“Well, Chance?” asked McLaughlin.
A boy pushed forward from the throng; it was William Buckhorn.
With his parents he had been at Fort Yates at the time of Sitting Bull’s death; they had remained there, not fleeing; they had not been at Wounded Knee.
The boy came and stood before Chance and Chance asked him how he was feeling now, and the boy said all right.
Then the boy went to Lucia and tugged at her sleeve. He looked up at her, shyly. “I am well now,” he said. “I will kill more rattlesnakes for you.”
Lucia thought for a moment.
“Nonsense,” she said, “from now on I will kill my own rattlesnakes-left and right.”
Chance smiled.
William was looking up at her, puzzled.
“Yes,” said Lucia grimly, “let them watch out for Lucia-let them watch out for Lucia Turner-” She looked at Chance, “for Lucia Chance,” she amended.
“You’re crazy to hunt rattlesnakes,” said William.
“Oh,” said Lucia.
“You might get bit,” said William.
“All right,” said Lucia, confused, “then I won’t hunt them.”
“Good,” said William Buckhorn. Then he added, “I won’t either.”
“Good,” said Lucia.
“But can I have the rattles back?” asked William.
“Yes,” said Lucia. She recalled that the baking-powder cans behind the soddy had still been there.
“Thank you,” said William, and then turned and went back to his parents.
“Well,” said McLaughlin, “what about it, Chance?”
Chance regarded the Indians; naturally his eyes sought out the Hunkpapa among them; with them he had ridden; he had been with them when they had fought; he had, in his way, shared their struggle, their defeat; with them he had found food, shelter and friendship; among them he had won the woman he loved.
Near the front of the Indians, astride their ponies, were Old Bear, Running Horse and Winona.
“Medicine Gun!” shouted Old Bear proudly, lifting his right hand in greeting.
“Old Bear,” said Chance, returning the sign.
Running Horse walked his pony to Chance. He pointed back to Winona, happily, who shyly dropped her head. “The Hunkpapa do not die,” he said.
“No,” said Chance, “the Hunkpapa do not die.”
He wondered if the child would be Totter’s or Running Horse’s; somehow it did not matter all that much; the important thing was the child, that the woman was bearing within her promise and life. About Lucia he did not yet know. It was possible, of course, that his first child would be Drum’s. He could imagine speaking to the boy one day, “Yes, I knew your father; he was by the mixings of blood my brother; I killed him.”
“No,” said Chance to Running Horse, “the Hunkpapa-the people of Sitting Bull and Old Bear and Running Horse and Drum-do not die.”
He put his arm about Lucia, happy and strong in her love and nearness.
“You know you must stay,” she said.
“You might have told me,” said Chance.
“It wouldn’t have been a surprise,” she said.
“You promised to be a good squaw,” Chance reminded her.
“I shall make an excellent squaw,” insisted Lucia. “It is also my intention,” she said, “when you get around to asking me-to make an excellent wife.”
“Marry me,” said Chance.
“Say please,” said Lucia.
“Please,” said Chance.
“Pretty please,” teased Lucia.
Chance decided, definitely, it would not be indecent, not at all, to spank a fully grown woman, especially a wench that deserved it like Lucia Turner, especially not if she were your wife, especially not if you could finish it up by removing her clothes and dropping her on the nearest bed.
“Nonsense,” said Chance.
“All right,” said Lucia, “I’ll marry you anyway.”
“Good,” said Chance.
“Not that I have any choice,” she said.
“Why not?” asked Chance.
“You didn’t ask me like a true gentleman,” she said, “you just said ‘Marry me.’ “
“So?” asked Chance.
“I must do what I’m told,” said Lucia.
“Why is that?” asked Chance.
“Because,” responded Lucia loftily, “I am an excellent squaw.” She looked at him archly. “You have not forgotten, have you?”
Chance looked about, confused. The Indians were watching him. McLaughlin seemed puzzled. The colonel was looking off somewhere, studying cloud formations.
“Please, Lucia,” whispered Chance.
“Have you forgotten?” demanded Lucia, one eyebrow quite high.
He kissed her to silence. “No,” he mumbled, “excellent-excellent.”
“Good rifle, good horse, good woman,” Lucia was mumbling into his teeth.
“Please shut up,” said Chance.
“Later,” said Lucia breathlessly. “Please later.”
“Pretty please,” mumbled Chance.
“Pretty pretty pretty pretty please,” said Lucia.
Mr. McLaughlin coughed rather loudly, twice, the second cough somewhat louder than even the first.
Chance disengaged Lucia’s arms from his neck, which he had to do again.
“Well, Chance?” asked McLaughlin. “The proposition stands. What about it?”
Lucia was looking up, at him.
“We want you here,” said the colonel. He gestured to the gathered Indians. “They want you here-Medicine Gun.”
Chance smiled.
“My fiance,” Lucia was saying, “is leaving immediately for California.”
“Lucia, will you please shut up,” said Chance.
“Certainly,” said Lucia.
“You will stay with us, won’t you?” asked McLaughlin.
“My Brother,” said Running Horse, “you will not leave us?”
Chance looked at the young Indian.
“No,” said Chance. “I will stay. You are my people.”
McLaughlin was shaking his hand, and the colonel, and Lucia kissed him; the Indians were shouting; they stamped their feet and crowded about him, to touch and hold him.
Chance felt Lucia’s lips against his cheek; she was crying; her warmth was marvelous in his arms; her happiness.
It was good, Chance decided, it was good.
Chapter Twenty-five
In the spring the grass came as usual to Standing Rock, thrusting itself up green between the melting snow and the black earth. The prairie became sweet and flowed with grass and wind. The Grand River, swollen in its banks, rushed its cold, muddy waters downstream to the wide Missouri.
The Messiah had not come and the Ghost Dance was only a memory of the Sioux.
On an April Sunday, a day the white men called Easter, Old Bear, a chief of the Hunkpapa, rode his pony across the sweet-smelling spring prairies.
He had not ridden very far when he stopped his pony and dismounted. Heavy and sharp in the damp earth was the print of a hoof, wide, deep and fresh. Old Bear knelt beside the print and bent close, inhaling even the smell of the earth in which the print lay. His heart leaped. In many years he had not seen such a print. It was the print of a buffalo. Most likely the animal had drifted south from Canada, separated or driven from its herd; probably for days it had been browsing southward across the North Dakota prairie; at last it had come to Standing Rock.
Old Bear began to follow the sign. He sang softly to himself as he rode, an old buffalo hunting song. His right hand carried his unstrung bow. The quiver at his side held four hawk-feathered arrows and one long, fine arrow, an eagle-feathered buffalo arrow which Old Bear had been saving for many years.