Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(45)

Amazingly enough, they talk among themselves, and without making any further demands, they mount their horses and withdraw, racing up the ridge and leaving the circle of wagons for their own encampment.

I don’t sleep at all, worried that Naomi has made herself a target. Stealing squaws is common among tribes. Recompense is easily made by offering a father something of equal value. Women and horses are the currency. William and Winifred obviously fear the same thing, because William and Warren sit with their backs to their wagon wheels all night, facing the ridge where the Dakotah disappeared.

They are back at dawn, their animals dragging poles bound at either end to support the skins they’ve piled upon them. But this time it is not a few warriors; it is the whole tribe—their old and their young, their dogs and their ponies, all prepared to follow us to Fort John. Abbott and I walk out to greet them, but Black Paint requests “the woman” and makes the sign for many and then faces, running his hand over his own features, as he speaks. There is no question that Many Faces is Naomi.

When I tell Abbott, he summons her forward, anxious to keep the peace, but William walks forward with her. His rifle is in his right hand, but he holds it loosely, watching as Black Paint presents Naomi with little pots of paint in red, black, yellow, white, and blue.

Naomi thanks him with a bow of her head. When she tries to retreat again, he raises his voice, indicating he is not finished.

“I will give you a horse,” he says to Naomi and points at me, insisting I interpret. He ignores William completely as he continues to speak.

“What is he saying, John?” Naomi asks, her eyes darting between us.

“He wants to give you a horse.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and she smiles. Her smile fades as soon as I tell her the war chief’s conditions.

“But he wants something in return. He will give you as many horses as you want, but you have to live with him.”

Naomi gasps. She begins shaking her head. I am angry with her for the situation she has put herself in, and Black Paint can tell. He looks at me for a moment and then beckons over his shoulder, calling someone to him. A girl wearing a pale-colored skin, her hair long and unbound, steps forward from the pack. Black Paint summons her closer, impatient. She looks on worriedly, a deep frown on her face, and a young brave lets out a stream of protest, his pony dancing beneath his vehemence. It is all I can do not to groan. The emigrants around us are watching in anxious silence, their oxen yoked, their wagons packed, but no one dares move or draw attention to themselves by pulling out. William and Winifred and all their sons stand a few feet behind me, but Abbott is nowhere in sight.

“She is Pawnee. Like you,” Black Paint says to me, pointing at the frightened squaw. “She will not make you angry. I want the woman of many faces. We will trade, and Many Faces can live with me and have many horses.”

“She is not my squaw,” I say. “I cannot trade her.”

I turn to William, but he is already shaking his head, his eyes wide, and I don’t have to explain to him what Black Paint is offering.

“He is honored that you want his daughter,” I lie, trying my best not to offend. “But she is of great value to her family and these people. Her father will not trade her either. Not for all the horses or all the squaws.”

Black Paint frowns but waves the unhappy girl back among the women, and the young brave who has protested on her behalf relaxes.

Black Paint studies us a moment, his eyes swinging back to Naomi several times before he shrugs and fists his hands in his horse’s mane like he is preparing to depart.

“It is better for me. White women are not good squaws,” he says. He repeats the words in Sioux, and his people laugh.

I don’t argue. I say nothing at all. I simply stand still, waiting for his next move. After a moment, he raises his hand, and his people begin to move away, abandoning their negotiations and leaving only the potted paints behind. There is silence in their wake. Men, women, and children huddle in their wagons behind us, peeking out from the little round openings, until the Dakotah have completely departed.

When the band is nothing but a moving line on the horizon, the emigrants erupt in excited chatter, relieved laughter billowing up like campfire smoke. Webb runs to me and hugs my legs, Wyatt hoots, and William claps my back like I have saved the day. Winifred calls me a blessing, Abbott blows his horn to pull out, and all is declared well. But Naomi and I remain frozen in place as the excitement ebbs and the others move away. My anger and my fear have not faded, and I want to chasten her, to make her understand.

“He wanted to trade the girl for you,” I tell her.

“I thought so,” she murmurs. “What did you say to him?”

“I told him I already have many squaws, and I don’t want another.” I glare at her and shake my head. It is not what I said to him, and she knows it, but my nerves haven’t settled, and my legs are still shaking.

“Would he have really given her away?” she asks, her voice as hollowed out as I feel.

“Yes.”

“When you told him no, what did he say?”

“He said white women do not make good squaws.”

“Huh,” Naomi grunts. “I’m not sure Black Paint would make a very good husband.”

I snort despite myself. I am sure Naomi is right.

“Black Paint said he would trade straight across. No horses. Just women. You for her,” I scold. She has already begun to relax, as if the event were of no importance. I try to shock her, to take the conversation further than it went in truth. “He was curious about the spots on your nose. He wanted to know if you are spotted all over, like his favorite pony.”