Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(46)

“Well, you wouldn’t know.” She sounds irritated by the fact, and I am immediately hot with outrage and desire. I want to take a switch to her backside. Then I want to hold her tight with no one watching.

“What else did you say?” she asks, impertinent.

“I said your family could not part with you . . . and you were not mine to trade.”

She turns her head and looks at me, her eyes leaving the horizon where the Dakotah have disappeared. “I am not yours to trade, John. But I am yours,” she says, and I look away, unable to hold her gaze a moment longer. I have no idea what to do with her.

“Will you remember that next time you try to negotiate with a Dakotah war chief?” I plead.

“Nobody was hurt, and you still have your jack, don’t you?” She straightens and juts out her chin, defensive.

“Yes. But we are lucky he didn’t just decide to take you instead.”



The Dakotah move more quickly than we do, even dragging all their worldly goods and herding horses, and we don’t see them again until we climb the hill, the fort in the distance. Fort Laramie sits on a rise on the south side of the Platte, and it is enclosed, along with a dozen homes, by a big adobe wall. Just the sight of dwellings not simply hewn from the prairie or erected out of poles and animal skins enlivens the company to spirits not felt in a good while.

Wagon trains dot the country on both sides of the river, and the lodges of French trappers and their Indian wives hug the walls of the fort and line the north and south banks where emigrants cross. The Dakotah pitch their tipis at the tree line, apart from the emigrant trains yet close enough to the fort to conduct commerce.

But reaching the fort from the north side requires crossing the Platte, something even the lure of shelves filled with wonders and a return to civilization cannot entice Abbott’s company to do. Most of the men cross without their wives, leaving them to spend the day at the wagons, cooking and doing the wash, while the men head to the fort for supplies. I cross for supplies too, leaving all my animals except Samson and Delilah hobbled with the rest of the stock. I promise Webb and Will a surprise if they keep an extra eye out. I need flour and coffee and dried meat; I didn’t set out from St. Joe with enough to cross the country, and though the knife I gave to Black Paint wasn’t my only blade, I don’t like being shorthanded.

The fort reminds me of St. Joe, though on a much smaller scale. Everyone’s doing business, trading, testing, tinkering with their outfits, and restocking their stores. I buy enough flour, food, and grain to fill my packs and a new blade with an elk-horn handle. I purchase a ream of paper for Naomi along with a box of pencils and a whittling knife to sharpen the tips. Her shoes are worn almost bare in the soles, and I purchase a pair of doeskin moccasins so buttery soft she won’t even know they are on her feet. A green dress, a few shades darker than her eyes, is piled in a corner with a stack of trousers and shirts that someone has set aside. I grab it and purchase it too, hoping none of the other men from the train will see me doing so.

A bow and a quiver for Webb and Will, a cradleboard for Wolfe so Naomi and Winifred can keep their arms free, and a new felt hat for Wyatt. I don’t know what I can buy for Warren. There are no wives on the shelves of Fort Laramie, and Warren misses Abigail. I decide something sweet will do us all good; two pounds of candy wrapped in brown paper is my final purchase. It all costs me more than it should—the trading post is the only place to get goods until Fort Bridger, and they take advantage of the demand.

I return to the camp before most of the rest of the men and approach the May wagons with my packages, wanting to deliver my gifts without William May looking over my shoulder. I have already half convinced myself to just leave Naomi’s gifts in her wagon without a word. But Webb and Will see me coming and run toward me, accepting my present with joyful whoops. Each has a piece of candy stuffed in his cheek before I can ask the whereabouts of anyone else.

“Where is Naomi?” I ask Webb, who hops around me with the bow, his little bare feet doing a variation of a war dance while he pretends to shoot at the sun. Will is studying the arrows, his eyes narrowed on the sharp points and the feathered quills, pulling them out of the quiver one at a time like he is drawing a sword.

“She went to visit the Indian ladies. Ma too. But Ma came back ages ago. She’s in the wagon with baby Wolfe,” Will says. “Do you want me to bring her the papoose?”

I stare at him, stunned. “What Indian ladies?”

Will points to the lodges of the French trappers on the banks of the Platte. Even from a distance, I can see dogs and children and women milling about. The trappers all have Indian wives; at the fort I heard someone refer to the community as the French Indians, though I’m guessing the women don’t come from any one tribe.

“Ma says she’s painting for them. There’s a whole big line,” Will adds. He doesn’t sound the slightest bit concerned.

I stow my packages, including the gifts for Naomi, in Abbott’s wagon and hurry up the hill, trying not to worry. It is not my business. I am not her keeper or her husband or her father. But I’m afraid for her and silently curse her mother for leaving her alone among strangers.

But she is not alone. Wyatt sits beside her outside the biggest lodge, half-breed children skipping around them with dogs nipping at their heels. An Indian woman swats at the dogs and points for the children to go play somewhere else after one trips over the items Wyatt seems to be in charge of collecting. As I watch, a squaw wrapped in a brown blanket sits down in front of Naomi, her legs crossed, her face solemn. Naomi hands her a looking glass, the one I saw hanging from the willow frame inside Warren’s wagon when I was laid low. The woman studies her face and smiles, nodding. I wonder with a start if she’s ever seen her likeness before.