Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(59)

“Did Hawk get away?” Webb asks, worried.

“He did not want to get away,” John replies slowly.

“He didn’t?” Webb squeaks.

“No. He wanted to be close to the girl.”

Webb wrinkles his nose, as though he can’t imagine it, and something warm begins building in my chest.

“The head chief and all his war chiefs took Hawk and all his pretty things and brought him into the big lodge. They sat around the fire and passed the pipe while they decided how they wanted to kill him.”

“Are there lots of different ways to kill a fellow?” Webb asks.

“Yes. Some more painful than others. And the girl’s father was very angry with Hawk.”

“Because the Pawnee and Comanche are enemies,” Webb says.

“That’s right. Around and around the circle, the Comanche passed the pipe, and no one could make a decision. But then the old grandfather came into the big lodge, and he saw Hawk wrapped in his granddaughter’s blanket, awaiting his fate. He saw the gifts he brought, and he said to Hawk, ‘Did you come to take my granddaughter away from her people?’

“Hawk said, ‘No. I want only to be near her. If you will let me stay, her people will be my people.’

“The grandfather sat down among the Comanche chiefs, and when the pipe finally reached him, he said to his son, the head chief, and all the braves, ‘We will not kill the Pawnee. We will make him one of us. He will bring peace between the Pawnee and the Comanche.’”

“Peace? Isn’t there any fighting in this story?” Webb wails.

“No. No fighting.” John’s lips twitch. “Hawk stayed with the Comanche and married the daughter of the chief. He stayed with her people, the Comanche, until the day she died. Only then did he go back to his own people.”

“She died?” Webb squeaks. “How did that happen?”

“My grandmother did not tell me. But that is not the important part of the story.”

“What’s the important part?” Will asks.

“Peace between people,” John answers.

We are quiet for a moment, thinking that over. Even Mr. Caldwell has nothing to say.

“I’ve heard that tale before,” Abbott says. “The legend of Hawk, the Pawnee Comanche chief, has lots of chapters.”

“I think I liked the part where he was stealin’ horses the best,” Webb says, frowning. “I want to know what happened to the dun and the roan and the paint.”

“Maybe you can decide, and then tomorrow, you can tell us what happened to them, in your own story, after supper.”

“I have early watch,” John says, rising suddenly. He’s been the center of attention for too long. He says good night, hardly looking at me, and I let him go, my thoughts still on his tale. Abbott and the Caldwells are quick to bid good night as well, taking their dishes and their opinions with them. Homer Bingham rouses Elsie, then helps her to her feet and walks alongside her as she waddles toward their wagon.

Ma sends the boys to bed, letting Pa herd them into the tent and get them settled. For a few moments, Ma and I are alone by the fire, Wolfe sleeping soundly in a basket at her feet. She is wearing her coat of many colors wrapped tightly around her, though the night is temperate and the fire is hot. We have plates and cups to wash and dough to make, but neither of us moves.

“It’s your story,” Ma says softly. “And John’s.”

“What is, Ma?”

“The story of Hawk and the Comanche girl. Peace between people.”

“Do you think John knows that? I don’t want him to give up his people for me.”

“I think John knows it best of all. He said much the same thing to your pa when he sought his permission.”

“Pa’s permission.” I sigh. “I don’t need Pa’s permission.”

“Maybe you don’t . . . but John did. He told William, ‘I will take care of Naomi, but I will also take care of your family. Your family will be my family.’” Ma stares at the fire, her back bent, her arms wrapped around her knees, and I suddenly need to go find John and fall down at his feet.

“Go to bed, Ma. Take Wolfe and go to sleep. I’ll clean up here and make the dough and be in beside you soon.”

Ma does not argue but rises wearily, hoisting Wolfe like an old crone with her basket of wash. “When you say good night to John, thank him for the story.” Her tone is wry, if weary, and I smile at her departing back. She knows me so well. “Tell him I am grateful for him too.”

“I will, Ma.”

“I love you, Naomi,” Ma adds. “I only got one daughter, but God gave me the very best one He had.”

“I’m guessing He was glad to get rid of me.”

“He won’t ever be rid of you. That’s not how God works.”

“Night, Ma.”

“Night. And let John get some sleep, Naomi.”

When I hesitate, she laughs, but the laughter turns to wheezing.





JOHN


Other than the sand and the barren stretches of dust and gravel, Abbott was right. The way isn’t hard, and we make good time, lifting the pall and easing the worry on furrowed brows. We reach the Green River the following day. Timber lines the banks, and there is plenty of grass, but the river is wide—easily a hundred feet from shore to shore—and swift moving, and when I walk the dun out into the current, he can’t touch bottom about a third of the way across, and I turn him back.