Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(36)

“You are weak,” Dog Tooth says to me, noting my pallor and my ginger movements.

“I am sick. While I was sick, my mules were scattered.”

“So maybe you will die anyway,” Skunk yells, and the men around him grunt and snicker.

“Maybe I will. But I’m not going to die today. And those are my mules,” I say.

“We have just gone to battle with our enemies, the Sioux. We don’t want to go to battle with Demp Sea,” Charlie says, anxious, and the braves grow quiet again. I hope the boy has not drawn the ire of his chief.

“I will give you one mule. You choose,” I say to the chief. “My gift to you for finding my animals.”

“What about those mules?” Dog Tooth points at Trick and Tumble. “They are not your mules. They do not bear your mark.”

“They are his mules.” I nod toward Wyatt.

“If we take his mules, Dempsey will not care,” Skunk says. Dog Tooth raises his hand to silence the brave. Then he holds up his pinky and his ring finger, sign talk for two.

“You give me one . . . and he gives me one. Two mules. One from each of you. And you will not die today.” The chief looks at Wyatt, who has not understood a word of the negotiation.

“I cannot give you another man’s mules,” I say.

Dog Tooth is defiant, shaking his head so his thatch of hair dances above him.

Two. He enunciates the word with his fingers once more. Charlie is still standing next to Dame, and I ask him to lead her back to his chief.

“Do you like my horse?” I ask Dog Tooth.

He grunts. “I like the horse.” His expression is stony, but Charlie gasps.

“I will give you the horse.” The words pain me, and I can hardly look at Dame. Skunk crows, his enthusiasm for the trade apparent. Dame is a beautiful horse, and the mules, for all their worth, do not inspire the same enthusiasm.

“I will take the horse . . . and one mule,” the chief insists, showing me two fingers like I am slow.

I run my hands down Dame’s sides and across her belly, feeling my way, making a great presentation of my movements. I tell Charlie to run his hands down her flanks and up her sides too, though he won’t be able to feel anything. It is for show.

“After the snows, she will foal. And you will have your mule,” I tell Dog Tooth, raising two fingers. “One horse. One mule.”

“You lie,” Dog Tooth says.

“I don’t. The donkey is the sire.” I nod at Kettle. “I’ve bred them before. I traded the foal to Captain Dempsey last year.” He was a beauty too, tawny and strong, with dark legs and a dark face. I bred Kettle to Dame in late March, when her season began, in hopes of another. It will be months before I know for sure if it was successful. But the indications are there. Dame refused another go-round before I left St. Joe—a sure sign—and she hasn’t shown signs of estrus ever since.

It will be better to leave her behind. I know that. The rigors of the next three months would be hard on her and the unborn foal. But I could not bear to part with her. Now I must.

I make the sign of a good trade, keeping my eyes averted from my horse.

Dog Tooth nods and returns the sign. He tells Charlie to mount Dame, and Charlie obeys, his eyes clinging to my face. Without another word, the Pawnee chief spurs his pony forward toward the Platte, and his men follow, leaving me, Wyatt, and our mules behind.





NAOMI


Webb rides at the front of the train with Mr. Abbott, sitting up beside him in his wagon to be on the lookout for John’s mules. We remain at the back, doing the same. Ruts stretch across the plain. One has only to follow them to know where to go and where we’ve been, but I leave pictures behind, a trail of them, skewering them into the ground with sticks. It is foolish, but I can see the bits of white as I look back. The wind will take them away. The rain too, when it storms again. But I want John and Wyatt to know which ruts are ours.

We follow the road for four miles until we reach a place called Buffalo Creek and then continue alongside the water for about three miles before we camp. Mr. Abbott blows his horn, indicating quitting time, and the wagons begin to circle around a spot of green that hasn’t been thoroughly trampled and eaten down by earlier herds and trains. My eyes ache from searching the horizon all afternoon. We’ve seen no sign of John’s animals, and my anger hasn’t abated.

There are no trees, but we pull a little driftwood from the water, collecting it for future use. It’ll do us no good tonight, but the willow bushes provide enough fuel to make a fire. I boil some water for coffee and begin to make stew from salt pork and potatoes, hoping the light will guide Wyatt and John to us. I prepare dinner with my back to the rest of the train, my eyes to the east, watching; I cannot bear to look upon anything else.

If I squint, the long grass to the north shivers and sways like waves on the sea. Pa still talks about Massachusetts and living near the ocean. I imagine it’s one of the reasons he wants to go to California. He was born in Massachusetts, but his family moved to New York when he was ten and then to Pennsylvania when he was thirteen, trying to find work on lands that had to be cleared and farms that didn’t produce enough to make a good living. When Pa was eighteen, his father moved the family to Illinois, where Pa met Ma. Pa says in Massachusetts there are great lighthouses that sit in the bays, signaling to the ships on the water.