Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(100)

A dozen Indian children play about a hundred yards upstream in a little cove, stabbing at the water with pointy sticks like they’re hunting fish. They’ll never catch anything; they’re too loud. They don’t notice me or Bungu, and I let the horse drink, keeping my eyes peeled for trouble. A group of women descends from the ridge to the water on a path more sloped than the one Bungu took, and I realize that if he’d gone any farther, we would have run right into their camp. Two of the women carry papooses, and I will Bungu to finish so I can ease away without being seen. My throat is dry and my hands are cramped, but I don’t dare leave his back, especially now. They are far enough away that I can’t see small details, but when one woman turns to assist an old woman behind her, I see the papoose on her back. Pale hair curls around the baby’s pink face; the child’s identity is unmistakable.

Washakie was right. Pocatello’s people are in the very next valley.





NAOMI


He is gone so long, and I am angry and scared. Washakie laughed for a long time when John jumped on the back of the gray horse, but he isn’t laughing anymore. Lost Woman is wringing her hands, and from the tone of her voice, Hanabi is scolding Washakie. He acts as though he isn’t concerned, his arms folded and his face serene, but he hasn’t stopped watching the distance where John disappeared. He returns, finally, a dark speck that becomes a plodding horse and a single rider, and I swallow the relief and swipe at the angry tears that are brimming in my eyes. When he’s close enough that I can see he’s uninjured—no blood, no broken limbs, and a straight back—I turn and stomp into our wickiup. He can come find me.

He doesn’t do so immediately, and by the time he enters, my tears have dried, but my temper is hot, and I’m waiting cross-legged on our bed of buffalo robes.

“That was a fool thing to do, John Lowry,” I snap, not even waiting for the skin over the door to fall back into place.

He walks to our bed and sinks down on his haunches so his eyes are almost level with mine.

“Lost Woman was terrified,” I add.

“Her daughter was dragged from a horse. That’s how she died. I already got an earful.” He sounds sad for Lost Woman but not especially penitent.

“What took you so long?” I rage. I want to wrap my hands in his hair and shake him.

“Bungu ran until he was done. That took a while.”

“Bungu? You named your horse Horse?” I am so angry that I’m being mean.

He smiles at me like he’s proud. “You know that word.”

“I do. I know that word and a few others, like kutise. Crazy. That was crazy what you did, John.”

“Oh, Naomi.” He places his big hands on my hips and pulls me toward him. I flop back against the robes to get away and realize my miscalculation when he climbs on top of me, his elbows braced on either side of my head. I’m well and truly pinned, and I’m not done being mad. He smells like horse, leather, and pine sap. He smells like John, and I love that smell. I love him, and I don’t want to lose him. I try a different argument.

“What would happen to me if something happened to you, John?” I ask.

“I’ve been breaking mules since I was twelve years old, Naomi. That’s kinda what I do. And now I got us one more horse. Washakie said he’d give him to me if I rode him.”

I close my eyes, despairing. He isn’t sorry at all.

He kisses my closed lids and runs his mouth along my jaw. When he tugs my lower lip into his mouth, I relent and kiss him back, biting his tongue to show he’s not forgiven. He bites me back on the side of my neck, but when I think he’s bent on making me forgive him without even saying he’s sorry, he raises his head and takes a deep breath.

“I saw him, Naomi. I saw Wolfe.”

Pain knifes through my belly, and I hiss at the sharp yet familiar agony.

“They’re here. Just like Washakie said they would be. They’re close too. Bungu almost ran right through their village.”

“You saw W-Wolfe?” I stammer.

“He looks just fine. Just fine,” he whispers, reassuring me. He recounts going to the river to water the horse and seeing the children and the women upstream.

“I don’t think they saw me. No one ran or got scared, and no one followed me back here.”

“I want to see him,” I demand. “I want to go, right now.”

He nods slowly, as if he expected that, but he keeps me pinned beneath him. “I told Washakie. He’s going to go and bring Hanabi and Lost Woman and some of the chiefs with him for a visit. He doesn’t think you or I should go. He wants to let them know we’re here so they don’t get scared and run . . . or attack. It will be a visit of peace and goodwill.”

“Goodwill?” My chest is tight, and I push up against John, needing to breathe. He rolls to the side but stays propped up, looking down at me. “Goodwill, John? I don’t especially feel goodwill toward Pocatello and his people.”

John sits up, wrapping his arms around his legs, his head bowed, but he doesn’t respond. I don’t understand his silence.

“My family was massacred. I heard my mother’s screams. I saw my father and my brother lying in a pool of blood,” I whisper.

“I know you did,” he says softly. “I saw most of it too.”