For a full fifteen seconds, Jim Sundance looked at the older man across the table. Then he said, “Sorry, Colfax. No deal.”
Colfax’s face darkened. “Dammit, I’m entitled to see my own daughter. Who are you to tell me—?”
“She’s my woman,” Sundance said.
Colfax’s mouth thinned. “You’re married, then?”
“No, not in white man’s style. Not even in the Cheyenne way, in the sense that I have paid Tall Calf a marriage price for her or any words have been spoken over us. But she lives in Tall Calf’s lodge, as his daughter, and when I go back to the Cheyennes, she’s waiting for me.”
“And in the meantime,” Colfax rasped, “I suppose she’s free to lie up with any buck Indian she takes a fancy to! Since you didn’t even have the decency to—”
Sundance’s pistol was still on the table; and his hand tightened on it. “Be quiet, Colfax,” he said softly. “Keep your foul mouth shut.”
Colfax stared at the gun, then at Sundance, his face red, mottled.
“I’m gone a lot,” Sundance said. His mouth twisted. “People like you keep trying to grab what the Indians have, and it keeps me moving to try to stop you. In an Indian camp, a woman needs a man to see to her. Tall Calf does that, as her father—a hell of a better father than you ever were.”
Still watching Colfax, he finished his drink. ‘That way, she’s free, you understand? If she ever decides she’s tired of waiting for me and wants another man, she can take him. And if she decides she wants to leave the Cheyennes and come back East, she’s free to do that, too. Meanwhile, our arrangement works; the Cheyennes don’t see anything wrong with it and neither do we. Not perfect, maybe, not the way we’d like it to be, but the best we can do right now.”
Colfax shook his head uncomprehendingly. “All right. If she’s free, why won’t you bring her to me?”
“Because we’re not fools. Listen, Colfax, there have been times when she’s longed to see you, but the risk’s too great, and she’s always decided against it. We both know damn’ well that the minute you get your hands on her, you’ll never let her go again. She’s something that used to belong to you and that you lost. And you don’t like losing things that were your property. Well, she doesn’t want to be your property. She wants to be a free woman in her own right.”
Colfax was breathing hard. He poured himself another drink. “I wouldn’t—”
“The hell you wouldn’t. You’d do anything to get what you want, regardless of who it hurts. Why do you think she left you in the first place? You’re rich, and there are a lot of Austin Shells for hire. I couldn’t fight them all to keep you from taking her. So she stays where she is—unless she decides herself that she wants to come back to you for good.”
For a moment, Sundance thought Colfax was going to spring up, try to fight him. The man’s face was beet-colored, and he clenched his fists. Then, quite suddenly, he changed, easing, relaxing. He spread his hands flat on the table. Slowly, he smiled. “Sundance,” he said, “you’re no businessman. You didn’t even wait to hear my proposition before you turned me down.”
“There’s nothing you could offer me—”
Colfax’s smile widened. “You think not? It’s always been my observation that every man has his price. I don’t think you’re any exception.” Then his smile went away. “I want to see my daughter again. I want to talk to her and try to persuade her to come back to me. Yes, I want to take her away from you, if I can. But not by force. What good would that do me? She would only run away again. I don’t think I’d have to use force, anyway. By now, she must be tired of that life she’s leading—a squaw’s life. She must be yearning for what I can give her. Luxury, ease, fine clothes, anything she wants that money can buy. I’d be a fool to use force with all the rest of that going for me.” He toyed with his glass. “All I want is the opportunity to talk to her, father-to-daughter. Now that you understand that, do you want to hear my offer?” His smile came back. “Because, you see, I know what your price is.”
“Oh, you do, eh?” Sundance murmured. “All right. What is it?”
“A high one,” Colfax said silkily, almost casually. “But one I’m prepared to pay to get a chance to persuade my daughter to come back. What I’m offering you, Sundance, is the Cheyenne hunting grounds.”
Sundance sat up straight. “The what?” He stared at Colfax incredulously.
“The Cheyenne hunting grounds.” Colfax gestured. “They lie between the Black Hills and the Big Horn Mountains ... Montana. The unceded lands. That’s what I’m prepared to pay for Barbara, Sundance.”
Suddenly his voice was crisp. “You’ve got a man in Washington, you’re thoroughly informed. You know as well as I do that the Army’s about to take over responsibility for clearing Dakota and eastern Montana of Indians. And you know, too, that when they try it, there’s going to be a war, a hell of a war, and I don’t want my daughter in the middle of it. All right. I can’t do anything about Dakota; the gold hunters are already there. Dakota’s down the drain. But if you and I could come to terms, I could save the unceded lands for the Cheyennes and the Sioux both.”
“Go on,” Sundance said.
Something kindled in Colfax’s eyes. “Got you hooked, eh? But you think it’s a lot for one man to deliver. Well, I can deliver it.” He reached in his pocket, took out a cigar. It lay in the palm of his outstretched hand. “Like this. If I say the word, the Cheyennes can go on living. Or ... ” He closed his hand slowly, and when he opened it again, the cigar was a crumpled mess. Sundance stared at it. Colfax smiled, held it a second, then tossed it aside. “The railroad,” he said.
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” Sundance murmured.
“I thought you would. The pressure on the unceded land coming from the Northern Pacific. For every penny you’ve sent to Washington, they’ve spent ten dollars.”
“And you’re the Northern Pacific,” Sundance said.
“No,” said Colfax. “I’m only the money-man, the key figure in a combine to provide the financing. The railroad’s stalled at Bismarck now for lack of cash. It wants to go on through the Indian lands along the route that was surveyed in ’73, but it can’t until it gets the money. And I ... I control the money. It’s in my power to say whether the railroad moves on or stalls where it is.”
He leaned forward. “The whole combine depends on me, Sundance. If I pull out, it collapses.” His eyes glittered. “You bring Barbara to talk to me at Bismarck and I’ll pull out. Simple as that, and at least for several years, the pressure’s off the Cheyenne lands. But if she doesn’t show up in Bismarck in sixty days, I’ll give the go-ahead. And then the Cheyenne lands go—and so do the Cheyennes.”
Now his grin was confident. “It’s your decision, Sundance. You’re a big talker about protecting Indians. Let’s see if it’s more than talk.”
Sundance looked at him steadily. “You’re lying, Colfax.”
“Am I? I’ve got documents to prove—”
“No. I don’t doubt what you said about having the power to make the railroad stop or go. Where you’re lying is when you say you’d stop it. I know you too well. You wouldn’t throw a fortune like that away—not for anything, not even your own daughter.”
Colfax leaned back, looking as smug as a poker player with a royal flush called by everyone on the board. “Maybe you’re right, Sundance. But then again, maybe you’re not. I’ve got millions, Sundance, lots of millions, more than I can keep track of. But I’ve only got one daughter. Maybe I’d let more millions go, pass them up, for a chance to see and talk to my daughter again.”
“Not likely. I’d bring her to Bismarck, you’d have a bunch of strong-arm men there, they’d try to take her—”
“I give you my word.”
“Your word isn’t worth a buffalo’s fart in a blizzard, Colfax.”
The financier’s face went hard, his eyes were angry. Then he masked that expression. “All right. That’s for you to decide. But I’ll tell you this. It’s the only chance the Cheyennes have got. The only one. Otherwise, next spring the Army will come in, and not just a patrol, not just a regiment. But a real Army, led by the best generals there are—Crook, Custer, all the experienced Indian fighters. With artillery and Gatling guns, cavalry and infantry. And they won’t leave that country until every Indian is dead or surrendered.”
He shrugged. “Two men have the power to prevent that happening, Sundance. Me and you. I can block it in the banks and brokerage houses and you can block it by bringing my daughter to Bismarck. There it is and there it lies. Take it or leave it.”
A coldness settled on Jim Sundance as he stared at Colfax. That much he didn’t doubt; like the cigar, the man held in his hand the power to make war or keep the peace. To destroy or spare the Cheyennes. But would he? Would he keep his word? And for that matter, was he right? Was Barbara tired of the hardship of the Cheyenne way, could she be lured into choosing another road? There was too much to think about, far too much, for him to speak now.
Colfax seemed able to read his mind. “I’m in no hurry, Sundance. I have to be in Bismarck in sixty days anyhow. This is September fifteen. Say the fifteenth of November. Have her there by then, give me two days to talk to her, be with her. You do that, whether she stays with me or goes with you, there’ll be no railroad through the unceded lands for years. But if you’re not there, I’ll send a telegram to New York—just one, a few words, is all it’ll take—and it’s the end of the Cheyennes.”
For a moment, the two men looked at each other, eyes locking. Then Sundance rasped, “You son of a bitch.”
Colfax laughed. “November fifteenth. By midnight.”
Sundance stood up. “No,” he said hoarsely. “No, damn you. It wouldn’t do any good. You’d only double-cross us both, take her and send the Army in anyhow.”
Colfax’s face did not change. “Maybe you’ll feel different about it later on. Anyhow, I’ll be there, Sundance, in Bismarck. Whether you and Barbara come is up to you.”
Sundance looked at him, then holstered his Colt and turned away.
“Where’re you going?” Colfax asked.
“North,” Sundance said. “North to the Yellowstone, before the winter settles in.” He strode out of the bar, aware of Colfax’s eyes on him, hearing Colfax’s laughter behind him.
Out on the sidewalk, the wind was like a knife. In the lee of a building, in an alley, Austin Shell lounged, clad in a buffalo-hide overcoat, picking his teeth. He looked at Sundance, not speaking, with eyes like bits of ice. Then he threw the toothpick aside and went into the bar while Sundance strode up the sidewalk to where he’d hitched the stallion.
He rode directly into bitter weather, coming prematurely down from Canada. He crossed the Niobrara and swung west toward the headwaters of the Cheyenne River. Once past that, he began to see buffalo, traveling in the same direction, headed into the wind as they always did. There was rime ice on the edges of the Powder, and by the time he hit the Tongue, a light snow was falling. He crossed the divide and entered the valley of the Rosebud, and in a sheltered canyon there, he found the village of Tall Calf, eighteen lodges, and fifty more of the band of Two Moons.
It was like coming home. The heavy winter lodges sent their multiple curls of smoke up into the iron-colored sky. The big horse herd was spread out up and down the creek, taking full advantage of good grazing before the deep snows came. The canyon walls, timber-clad and sloping, broke the wind, and in furs and blankets and thick hide clothing, the Indians moved about freely, gathering wood and buffalo chips before real winter settled in. Here, on their own land, in their own country, they were free from fear of the white man’s soldiers, with no enemies but their ancient one the Crows, who would not be traveling at this time of year. For a little while at least, they could know peace and security and, if the fall hunt had been good, plenty. There would be well-stocked larders of dried buffalo meat, a store of prairie turnips gathered before bad weather, fresh dog to vary the diet, and what deer, moose, elk. bear and buffalo they could kill as the winter went on. When Sundance rode into the camp, he was spotted immediately by the Dog Soldier and Kit Fox fighting society guards. They and the warriors of the Bowstrings and Red Shields galloped up to him, laughing and joking and greeting him, and shook his hand and embraced him. He knew them all, and it was good to see them again, but he had not much time for them. He wanted to be with Two Roads Woman. They knew that and fell away and let him ride on through the concentric circles of the camp, toward the lodge of Tall Calf on the inside.
It was a big teepee, of heavy bull hide, double-staked and ornamented with picture writing and sacred symbols. Tall Calf’s best war horse was short-tethered outside, shaggy withers hunkered against the wind. Sundance halted Eagle on the lee side, dropped his reins, turned toward the bull hide doorway. As he did so, its flap lifted and a figure scrambled out and straightened up. Bareheaded and clad in wolf fur, she stood there poised, yellow hair dangling to shoulders in twin braids. Blue eyes lit, gleamed. Barbara Colfax, Two Roads Woman, cried out and ran to him. “Jim!”
He gathered her into his arms, kissed her. She pressed her body hard against him, as a few random snowflakes drifted down. Her lips and tongue were warm and eager, and he could feel the soft richness of her breasts even through all the furs. The kiss lasted a long time; then she broke away a little. “Oh, Jim,” she whispered. “I hoped you’d come back this winter.”
He looked down at her. Life on the prairie did not blunt her beauty, only accentuated it. Her skin was tanned as dark as any Indian’s, but it was still smooth, velvety. Her nose was straight, her lips full, red. She smelled faintly of campfire smoke, and of the perfume of dried flowers Cheyenne women used. It was a good, clean smell; even in the dead of winter, most Cheyennes bathed every day. Her hands were rough, hard, as they stroked his cheek, but that was only token of the fact that she paid her own way. Sundance pulled her to him again. “Yes,” he said. “I’m here to winter.” But even as he spoke the words, other words rang in his mind. Crook’s. It may be the last free winter the Cheyennes have ...
“Where’s Tall Calf?” he asked when he had kissed her again.
“Inside. He’ll be so delighted.”
They went into the lodge. In the center of its vast diameter, a bed of coals and small flames provided warmth. The smoke went straight up through the hole at the apex, where flaps could be changed to insure a draft. There was plenty of room; Tall Calf had only one wife and Barbara—two women were enough to do the work. As Sundance dropped the entry flap behind him, the chief sprang to his feet, a tall, massive, impressive man past middle age. His hawk like face lit with pleasure. “Sundance, my son!” Blanket-swathed, he sprang across the fire, embraced Sundance.
Then his woman was there, too. Since Sundance and Barbara were not, even by Cheyenne standards, married, there was no prohibition on his looking at her or talking to her, and she hugged him. “This is an occasion,” she said happily. “I’ll go strangle a dog.” She threw on a blanket, left the teepee.
When she had gone, Tall Calf gestured to a buffalo robe spread before the fire. “My son, sit.”
Sundance did, cross-legged, with Barbara beside him, holding his hand. Tall Calf fumbled in his gear, brought out pipe and tobacco. They smoked ceremonially, and then Sundance gave the chief a package of white man’s Bull Durham and some papers, and Tall Calf deftly rolled a cigarette with one hand. When he had it lit, he looked from Sundance to Barbara. “I think it is good to have you back again,” he said. “I think you must have much news to tell us—me, Two Moons, and the council. I think we have some to tell you, too. But, first ... ” He smiled. “I just remembered. My war horse has not been watered this morning. I think I will take him to the creek. Also, I will see to yours, Sundance. Your gear I will leave outside the teepee for you to get when you’re ready. You must spread your robes in my lodge.”
“I will,” Sundance said. And then Tall Calf went out, and he and Barbara were alone together.
“Oh, God,” she said in English. “I’ve missed you so much. Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been down in Mexico. And then—” He broke off. No. No, this was not the time to mention her father. “And then I headed here.”
They looked at one another. Then Barbara touched his cheek again and laughed. “I think it’ll take Magpie Wing a long time to find a dog and Tall Calf a longer one to water the horses.”
“Likely,” Sundance said, and grinned. He watched her stand up, go to her bed, spread the buffalo robes. She stood there on them, looking at him gravely, her eyes lambent, swirling. Then she threw off the wolfskin coat; after that, she pulled the hide dress, with all its fringe and beadwork, over her head, and then she was naked, save for the rope. Of soft deerskin, it was like a chastity belt, wrapped around her thighs and swathing her loins. Sundance looked at it. “You still wear that,” he said thickly.
Her eyes met his. “While you’re away, yes,” she said. “But when you come back—” She unknotted it, threw it aside and sank down on the blankets. Where her flesh was exposed to weather, it was a tawny bronze in color; where it had been sheltered, it was smooth and white as ivory. Sundance went to her, stripping away his own clothes swiftly. He lay down beside her, and she pulled the top robe over them, and its warmth encompassed them. She turned her face to his, lips parted. “Jim,” she breathed.
In its circle of stones, the fire crackled faintly.
By nightfall, the lodge was crowded and the women had left to let the men talk. The chiefs were there: Tall Calf and Two Moons, the latter stocky and full-faced; and the leaders of the warrior societies, and the better medicine men and the other influential old men of the tribe. Tall Calf spoke first. “They wanted us to go to the agencies. There they said we would draw our annuities and rations and learn the white man’s ways so we could prosper. But the annuities and the rations did not come and we were hungry. And when we said that, they said we must farm.” He laughed bitterly. “We have often fought the Shoshones. But I have heard a story about their chief, Washakie. The white men told him that his people must plant the ground and raise potatoes, and Washakie, standing up, said this: ‘God damn a potato!’ That is how we feel, too. So we have come to our own lands, what they have left us, to hunt, to live. So far, we have not been bothered. The Sioux have trouble with the whites because of gold, but there is no gold here. The Crows come in sometimes and we fight them. But that is nothing, we have always fought them. It is going to be a hard winter. This is a better place to spend the winter than the agencies.”
Two Moons spoke when Tall Calf had finished. “I think we can get along here. There are not so many buffalo as there used to be. But if we don’t kill too many and the whites don’t come in, there are enough. We’ll take only what we can use and guard the rest, and I think if they will leave us alone and keep the treaty, we can make out all right. Besides, here, when summer comes, we can hold our Sun Dance. At the agencies, they won’t allow it, I don’t know why. We don’t try to stop them from going to their lodges with the cross on top, but they try to stop us from worshipping the Big Spirit. Anyhow, all we want is to stay here and be left alone.”
“I know,” Sundance said. He looked around the circle, at the intent, black eyes fastened on him. He thought about what Crook had said, what was in his letter, what Colfax had said. He started to tell them that, and then his courage, for once, failed him. This was their last hope: the Laramie treaty and their unceded hunting grounds. Once they had roamed the whole west, but now they had adjusted to being pushed back, beaten; as long as they had the land around the Yellowstone, they thought they could survive.
He licked his lips. They were living in a dream, a fool’s paradise, and he knew it. But this was the last winter they had. After that came war. But the Army could not move ’til Spring. Why destroy their peace of mind now? Later would be time enough. Besides, maybe there was an out. His mind went back to Colfax’s offer. No, he thought. No, it wouldn’t work ... He would only double-cross us. But the hope in their voices pierced him like an arrow. And he heard Colfax’s words again: What I’m offering you, Sundance, is the Cheyenne hunting grounds ...
“Have you heard anything to make you believe they will break their word again?” Tall Calf leaned forward across the fire. “What do the white men say out there?”
Sundance looked into his eyes. He drew in a deep breath. “I have heard nothing.” he said.
Tall Calf relaxed. “Good,” he said. “Then perhaps we will not have to fight again. I hope not. My heart is sick with fighting.”
“No,” Sundance heard himself say. “If everything goes well, you won’t have to fight again.”
Tall Calf stood up. “Then I think we have heard everything there is to hear and said what we have to say. The council is ended.”