Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(66)

“The problem is two men are dead and Bridger’s been breaking laws. Ask him again,” Kelly insists.

“Do you know who killed the patrol and took the horses?” I ask Washakie, careful not to accuse.

“I know they probably deserved to die,” Washakie says. I don’t tell Captain Kelly what he’s said but wait for him to continue. He changes the subject instead.

“Are you a white man?” Washakie asks.

“My father is a white man.”

“Where is your tribe?”

“I have no tribe.”

“You are not Pawnee?”

He has caught me off guard. I wonder if he can hear the Pawnee in my speech.

“My mother was Pawnee,” I say.

“Not you?”

I am silent for a minute, considering. I don’t know how to answer. In the end, I just introduce myself. “I’m John Lowry.”

“John Lowry,” he repeats. “I know that name.”

“Hanabi lived with my family.” I say her name with trepidation. I don’t know if it is ever wise to claim familiarity with another man’s wife.

He shows no expression when I mention Hanabi, but after a weighty pause he answers my question, and his voice has lost all hostility.

“It wasn’t my people who killed the soldiers. We don’t kill white men. We kill the Crow. Sometimes we kill each other. But we don’t kill white men,” the chief says.

“Why?” I am genuinely curious.

“They keep coming. It won’t do any good.” He shrugs.

I tell Captain Kelly and Vasquez what he has said, and the chief waits until I look at him again.

“It was probably Pocatello,” he concedes.

“Shoshoni?” I ask.

He nods once. “He doesn’t like white men. He likes scalps. He has white scalps of every color and size.”

“Are you his chief?”

“No. He leads his own people. He would like my scalp most of all. I am not his chief, but he worries his people will follow me.” Washakie shrugs again as if it makes no difference to him.

I repeat what Washakie has told me, filtering out the details that might ignite tensions.

“Ask him if Bridger’s been selling him any firewater,” Captain Kelly demands.

Washakie understands the word, and he sneers at the captain. He turns and barks an order to his men, who have been guarding their wares. A flurry of motion ensues, an indication that they are leaving.

Vasquez protests, obviously wanting what Washakie has brought to trade.

“Stay, Washakie. Please,” Vasquez begs, his hands upraised in supplication. “Tell him I will give him whatever he wants,” he says, turning to me. “No more questions.”

Captain Kelly sighs, but he doesn’t object, and I tell Washakie that Vasquez wants to trade now.

Washakie folds his arms and rattles off a list of demands—sugar, paint, guns, beads. He wants more because he has been made to wait and treated poorly. Vasquez is quick to fill the order, sending Teddy Bowles scrambling, and Vasquez and a handful of other traders, who have emerged from the fort now that the trouble seems to have passed, commence with trading. I marvel at Washakie’s carriage and demeanor. He is not intimidated or even accommodating, but he is also not overtly aggressive, which reassures the people around him. His warriors reflect his confidence. They are a handsome people, arrayed in a manner that demands respect.

Kelly’s men relax, and some disperse, though just as many step forward to engage in some trading of their own. A few ask me to interpret for them, and I do, easing the negotiations back and forth. I motion for Wyatt to bring me my packs, but when I try to conduct an exchange for myself, Washakie shakes his head. He points at the furs and the buffalo meat I have set aside. The meat is enough to feed the May boys for a month.

“For Hanabi,” Washakie says. “No trade, John Lowry. Gift.” And he will not even look at what I try to give him in return.

When he rides away, his ponies and packs laden with new provisions, Vasquez is still beside me, though Captain Kelly has withdrawn with his men.

“Louis Vasquez,” he says, sticking out his hand, since we have not been formally introduced.

“So I heard,” I say. “You are a bit of a legend where I come from.” He laughs, but he’s enough of a dandy that he is pleased.

“My father sold you a mule a decade ago. He never let me forget it,” I add. “And my father isn’t impressed by much.”

“John Lowry,” he says, nodding. “I remember it well. I thought there might be a connection when I heard your name. I still have that mule your father sold me. Ten years now. Never given me a moment’s grief, never quit on me.”

“When I write home, I’ll tell him. He’ll be happy to hear it.”

“This is my wife, Narcissa,” Vasquez says, introducing the woman in the deep-blue dress who has just joined us. She ducks under Vasquez’s arm, confident in her place. She’s small and well made and at least two decades younger than he is, but when she smiles, I see how she managed to convince a man like Vasquez to stay put—if he had to be convinced.

“Hello, Mr. Lowry,” she says, setting her hand in mine. “You have saved the day. Where in the world did you come from?”

“Uh . . . well,” I stammer, not knowing quite how to respond. “I’m with a wagon train. They’re still a day out. I came ahead to do some business.”