The vast Indian camp that night was filled with the sounds of both dancing and mourning; meanwhile, Reno’s detachment, joined by Benteen’s, was besieged on the bluff above the river. There were plenty of Indians to take turns keeping them pinned down; occasionally the tribesmen would make a charge; always the cavalry repelled them with steady, disciplined fire. This was an action Sundance took no part in; nor did any Indian criticize him for that. He had, after all, counted a grand coup, killed the chieftain of the soldiers. He had nothing more to prove.
In the teepee, Barbara, face pale, stirred the fire. Its flames lit her features with a red, flickering light. She looked at Sundance. “What happens now?” she asked.
Feeling drained, empty, he shook his head. Then he got wearily to his feet, took his quiver from the wall, his bow, slid them into his pannier. He cased the shield, which had been on his arm as he had ridden in pursuit of Custer, the magic of which had not failed him.
“What are you doing?” Barbara asked.
“Packing. You get busy, too.”
She looked at him inquiringly, wordlessly.
“Dammit,” Sundance said harshly, “it’s over, don’t you understand? All of it. In a day, maybe more, maybe less, the rest of them will be here—the other troops with Gatling guns and cannons. And after that, more and more.” He turned, gestured. “Custer didn’t lose out there; he won. He wanted two things: to go down in history and to see the Indians wiped out. Well, he’ll get both of them, now. No, he was the winner; we were the losers.”
“I don’t understand.”
“After this,” Sundance said, “they won’t rest. When the word gets around, the Army will throw in everything they have. They won’t rest until every Plains Indian is rounded up and on the reservation. And when they get there, they’ll live hard. This is the end of it—the end of the unceded lands and of the Sioux reserve. This time next year, all this country will swarm with soldiers; behind them will come the buffalo hunters, the ranchers, the settlers, the miners.”
Barbara swallowed hard. “Are you trying to say that ... that we have to leave the Cheyennes?”
“What else is there? They’ll run, yes, but they’ll be hunted down. Maybe for a little while some will find safety in Canada, but not even there for long. It’ll be one fight after another, no peace at all, only running and fighting.”
“I’m prepared for that. The People are my people.” She stood erect, proudly. “And yours.”
“Yes. But we can’t help them if we’re in Canada or being hunted like coyotes before hounds. Now is when any bit of leverage we can exert in Washington will count double—to get the best terms possible for them when they’re beaten, to save what we can of their lands in the form of reservations.” He picked up his Winchester, checked the action, made sure it was fully loaded, rammed it into his saddle scabbard.
Then he stood there like something carved from stone.
“Then where will we go?” Barbara whispered.
Sundance looked at her. “You’re going to Washington.”
“But, Jim, I—”
“Yes. You’re going there. And you’re going to live as a white woman and you’re going to tell the Indian’s side of it. As a white woman who’s lived with the Cheyennes for years, you’ll be a celebrity; all the newspapers will want to hear your story; people in government will listen to you. It’s what you’ve got to do; the only thing you can do. My lawyer there will get you all the proper introductions.”
Barbara was silent for a moment. Then she nodded. “All right,” she said. “And you—?” She hesitated. “You’re not coming with me?”
“No. It’s going to take money, lots of money.” He touched the Colt on his hip. “I’ve got to earn some. First, I’m going to the Nez Percé, to get another horse of the same stock and strain as Eagle. Then I’m bound for Texas. They say there’s fighting there now, lots of it. Over range rights, water rights. That kind of fighting pays off big. I’ll send you some money. And then, I’m coming back here, to scout for the Army against the Indians.”
Barbara’s mouth dropped open. “You’re—what?”
He gestured. “What else can I do? They’ll have to come in or be killed. Maybe I can persuade them to come in. At the very least, I’ll build prestige and influence, so that when I need to speak, intervene in their behalf, I’ll be listened to.”
“You mean you’ll help hunt down your own people.”
“Only to save their lives and make the best deal for them I can.”
Barbara stood there a moment. Then she said, wearily: “Yes. Yes, I guess that’s the only way.”
“There’s no other,” Sundance said.
“Then I’ll pack.” Suddenly her immobility broke, and she went to work with almost savage vigor; but tears were running down her cheeks.
At that moment, Tall Calf slipped through the teepee entry. He straightened up, then stared. “What—? Where do you go?”
“Away. Two Roads Woman to the East, the white man’s road. And I ... somewhere.”
“But we have just won a great victory—” Then he broke off. “You do not think so.”
Sundance did not answer.
“The treaty gave us our lands. We defended them according to the treaty.”
“There is no more treaty,” Sundance said. “There is only war.” Then he went to Tall Calf, seized his arm. “My father, you should have your people get ready to move, too. In a day or two, more troops will come with weapons you cannot fight. Then you must run.”
“Run where?”
“I don’t know,” Sundance said.
Tall Calf stared at him a moment. Then he nodded. “I think it is well. I mean, that you and my daughter leave. Both of you—you walk two roads. From now on, for us, until we win or lose or die, there can be only one. Do you go tonight?”
Sundance nodded.
“Then I give you my word for this. So that you can move freely among the whites, no whisper of your being here, no whisper of what you did today or who you killed will ever be spoken. Otherwise, they would call you traitor and hang you.” He swallowed hard. “But ... you will not stay away. Someday, when it is all over, you will come back? To us, to The People, to the Cheyennes?”
“We’ll come back,” Barbara said huskily.
Tall Calf went to her. He was getting old, Sundance saw; his shoulders were stooped, his gait stiff. He put his arm about her, held her for a moment, and she clung to him. Then he stepped away, went out of the teepee.
Sundance and Barbara went to the door. Barbara held Sundance’s hand tightly as they watched the old warrior walk slowly across the camp. Then Barbara sighed. “We’ll leave the lodge. Everything else will be packed by the time you bring the horses.”
Sundance nodded and went out into darkness to get them. As he strode through the camp, Huston’s bugle sounded again, once more the call of Taps. Then there was a rebel yell, Huston’s triumphant shout. “That’s for Custer!”
Sundance walked on, knowing that Huston was wrong, that it was for a lot of people and a way of life. He caught the horses and brought them back, and by midnight he and Barbara were riding east, the sound of combat and of Huston’s bugle fading in the night behind them.