Dawn.
Somebody was outside breaking wood for the fire. McAllister lifted his head. The only other person in the lodge but himself was the girl-wife, Falling Leaf. She saw him and smiled. He smiled back.
“Little Wolf,” he said, “has he gone with the warriors to fight the soldiers?”
“No,” she replied, “he has gone to watch for Many Horses.”
He threw back the robe, pulled on his boots and buckled the Remington’s belt around his waist. Going out of the tent he felt the cold blast of winter. At her wood-breaking, Red Feather turned to smile at him.
“Where is Many Horses, mother?” he asked.
“To swim in the creek,” she said.
McAllister shuddered at the thought. The old man must be as tough as rawhide.
He looked about him. Women were at their chores outside their lodges. Whatever the weather, women went about their work. Some boys fooled down by the creek. They were naked in the snow and an old man was ordering them into the water. One by one they obeyed him and dove into the water, the old man shouting encouragement to them. McAllister looked beyond the camp, seeing the pony herd on the far side of the creek, the animals either pawing their way to grass through the snow or browsing on the twigs and bark of trees. They would be half-starved now. The horses on which Strong Bear and his men were riding would be in the same condition, neither run nor stamina in them. They would be no match for the corn-fed horses of the soldiers.
Depression fell on McAllister. He knew that if he were half-smart he would be able to think of something to make Many Horses pack up camp and move, but he wasn’t half-smart enough and, though he searched his mind for an idea, he found nothing. He was bereft of ideas. The desperation of the moment seemed to have paralysed his brains.
Many Horses came up from the creek, dripping with water and smiling, obviously invigorated by the icy dip. He called a greeting to McAllister and passed into his lodge. McAllister replied sourly. He went inside to find the chief reclining against his backrest. He squatted down.
“Chief, hear me for the last time.”
Many Horses gestured for him to continue.
“By now Strong Bear will have met the soldiers. By now Anderson will know for sure that there is a camp here and that it is hostile. This is your last chance to pull out.”
“No, son. As I have said. If we leave here that will make us hostile in the eyes of the soldiers. I shall go and speak with Anderson. Time enough then to flee if we have to.”
McAllister said: “You don’t know Anderson like I do. If you go speak with him, he’s liable to put you under arrest. Where will your people be then?”
“No,” Many Horses said. “I shall go to him under a flag of truce. The pony soldiers respect such a flag. It is their custom.”
McAllister didn’t say anything more. He knew that there was no moving the chief and that he was beaten. What he had to think about now was saving his own hide.
“If the soldiers come here, chief, I’m a dead man,” he said. “You know that.”
“I know it and I shall not forget you.”
McAllister got up and walked outside the lodge. It was then that he spotted the two warriors. One was away to his right, sitting cross-legged in front of a fire for warmth. His rifle was across his knees. The other fellow was off to the left, standing leaning against a tree, rifle in hand. McAllister didn’t have any doubt that they were watching him. Not much chance of getting out of here without Many Horses’ say-so. Inwardly McAllister raged. He was as much a sitting duck as the Indians.
If he got out of this alive he could see himself becoming the best-hated man on the frontier, the Indian-lover, the man who betrayed the soldiers to the hostiles, the blood-thirsty Indians. But, God, that was the last thing he wanted to do. But only he knew that all he wanted to do was to save bloodshed. He just didn’t want a bunch of innocent people dying. He didn’t want the women and children hunted like beasts through the snow. Who would ever believe him? Who, if they did believe him, would care that he had tried to save Indians’ lives? Who would think Indians’ lives worth saving?
What would old Chad McAllister have done? What would he have thought?
McAllister knew the answer to that. The old bastard wouldn’t have given a damn what anybody else thought. He went his own way all his life; not always doing what he thought was right, but certainly doing what he wanted. Maybe they both amounted to the same thing to the old man.
He almost heard the old man’s voice –
Bust outa there, son, while you’re still alive. You did what you could. Git on thet fancy hoss o’ yourn an’ ride the hell away from it all.
McAllister knew he couldn’t do that. Maybe it was because of his Indian blood. He felt a fatalistic urge to stay. Somehow his fate seemed tied up with these people. He had to see the drama or the tragedy played out to the end. What did it matter what the majority of whitemen would think of him? He had to do what he thought was right. While there was still a slender chance of his doing something for Many Horses and his people, he must stay. If Anderson attacked the camp, he, McAllister, must take just one more of the chances that he had so often taken in his short life. If the soldiers came, he’d get a leg over the canelo and hightail out of there as if all the devils in hell were after him, banking on the horse’s speed and stamina.
In the midst of this reverie, he heard a distant shout.
Turning and lifting his eyes, he saw the horseman, a small dot on the ridge top. A woman nearby cried out in a hoarse voice and pointed excitedly. People were coming out of the lodges. Many Horses appeared, buffalo robe clutched around his shoulders. He looked up at the horseman. Did his eyes show alarm for a second?
“The soldiers!” he cried. “Is it possible that they’re so close.”
He called to Red Feather.
She came running with his pony. Men were catching up their horses tethered at the doors of their lodges; they hurried to their chief. The sub-chiefs came hurrying. Red Feather demanded to know what Many Horses thought he was going to do. To speak with the soldier chief, he told her brusquely. Looking like that, she cried. It wasn’t fitting that a great chief should go to meet the whiteman looking like that. Why, his face was not even painted. He gestured her away and vaulted, agile as a young man, on to the back of his paint-stallion. His heels drummed the animal’s belly and it trotted between the lodges toward the ridge. The sub-chiefs followed; a dozen warriors brought up the rear. McAllister stood watching them go, wondering how far away the soldiers were. He glanced around and saw that the two Indians were still watching him.