Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(35)

“How many men do you see?” I ask Charlie. He begins to whoop and dance, waving his arms, and I cling to the table, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

“I see many, many men, Mr. Lowry. The warriors have returned!” Charlie yells, and my breaths turn to fire.

“Where the hell is Wyatt?” I mutter.

And then I realize I’m looking at him.

From a distance it almost appears as if he leads the charge, but upon closer inspection, it becomes obvious that he is fleeing from the Pawnee, riding Trick and leading Tumble, who are running full out toward the water, more terrified by the presence behind them than by the long stretch of river laid out in front of them. I straighten, drawing my rifle up beside me, resting it on the table so it can be seen.

“Charlie! Take my horse. Ride out to meet them. Tell them I am a friend.”

Charlie doesn’t argue but fists his hands in Dame’s mane, swings himself onto her back, and races toward the riders barreling toward us. Poor Wyatt must think he is being cut off. He shouts my name, and I wave my rifle, trying to reassure him.

Kettle brays in terror.

“Whoa, Kettle,” I demand. “It’s Trick and Tumble. We know Trick and Tumble.” But it is not just Trick and Tumble, and Kettle brays and kicks up his heels. I beg him to go easy. If he decides to bolt, I don’t have the strength to stop him.

For a moment, I fear for Charlie, running toward his people on a borrowed horse and wearing a cavalry cap, but he is yipping with the confidence of family, and the band of Pawnee braves begins to pull up, abandoning their hard pursuit of Wyatt, though they do not stop completely.

Wyatt reaches me, sliding from Trick without coming to a complete stop. He’s lost his hat, but somehow he’s kept his seat and control of Trick and Tumble, who are shuddering to escape the band of Pawnee coming over the rise.

“They’ve got your mules, John,” Wyatt pants. “And I don’t think they’re inclined to give them back.” I am proud of the boy. He hasn’t lost his wits or his tongue, though his face is slicked with sweat and his eyes are wide with fear. Together, we watch them approach, not speaking, not plotting, just waiting for whatever is to come.

The Pawnee are bloodied, and their ponies are coated in dust. Across the backs of three of the ponies are slung the bodies of their dead. Charlie is no longer celebrating, no longer smiling. He calls out to me in his language, and the warriors around him frown in confusion. They do not know what to make of me. No one ever does.

“John Lowry, this is Chief Dog Tooth. My uncle. He has found your mules,” Charlie calls, and the man called Dog Tooth grunts and scowls at me. I don’t think he agrees with Charlie’s statement of ownership. His head is shaved but for a protrusion of matted black hair that bursts forth from a single patch on the top of his head. His eyes rove to and fro, taking me in, assessing my strength. He sniffs at me and puffs out his chest.

“Kirik? rasakita?” Dog Tooth asks. What is your tribe?

“Pawnee tat,” I answer. “But I have no village. No people. No squaw. Only those mules.” I point at the seven mules, ticking them off in my head. Boomer, Budro, Samson, Delilah, Gus, Jasper, and Judy. I sold Tug, Lasso, Lucky, Coal, and Pepper to Captain Dempsey.

“We found them,” Dog Tooth says.

“I know. But they are mine. The boy will tell you.” I do not call him Charlie. I don’t know if it is simply the name Captain Dempsey has given him, and I don’t want to insult him with a white man’s name in front of his chief.

Charlie slides off my horse and leads her to me, but he does not attempt to gather my mules.

“My nephew tells me you trade with the Dempsey,” Dog Tooth says. He pronounces the name Dempsey with the emphasis on the second syllable, like the captain is a great body of water, the Demp Sea, and not just a barrel-bellied man running a fort in the middle of nowhere.

“Yes. For many years. But I am going west now. With my mules.”

“They are our mules now, John Loudee,” argues a brave with the same protrusion of hair as his chief and a fresh scalp hanging from his spear. Someone calls him Skunk, and it is fitting. The r of my name becomes a soft d on his Pawnee tongue, but Wyatt recognizes that I have been challenged, and I see him inching toward the gun on his saddle.

I touch Wyatt’s arm and shake my head. I will not let this descend into a shootout. Wyatt is not going to die today. No one is going to die today.

“They carry my mark,” I say. The Lowry brand is small and obscure, a chicken track on the left flank, a simple JL, the J hanging on the back of the larger L. But I point it out on Dame and Kettle and then, using my rifle to support me, walk among my mules, touching my brand on each of them. They bow in shamed welcome. They ran away and now want rescue, but I will be lucky to leave with my life, not to mention my mules.

“Dempsey knows these are my mules. The boy knows they are my mules.” I point at Charlie. “If you take them, Dempsey will know you took them from me. That will not be good for your people.”

“We left many Sioux dead in the grass. We are not afraid of the Sioux, and we aren’t afraid of Demp Sea,” Dog Tooth says, but his braves are silent around him, and I wonder if they are simply bone weary or they know he lies. They do not look like victors, and I am fearful that they will consider my mules the only spoils of war available to them.