Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(79)

She hands it back abruptly, thumping it against my breasts. I try to take it, but she simply uses it to underscore her words.

“Nay-oh-mee.”

I nod.

She points at the book, adamant. “Beeya.” Her desire is clear. She wants me to draw her face, to add it to my book.





JOHN


I find another picture caught in the grass about a mile from the river. It is Webb asleep on Eddie the ox, his arms and legs loose and dangling. I remember that day. Oddie gave out, and we had to leave him behind. I cannot follow Naomi’s trail in the darkness, and I hunker down to wait for daylight not far from the water. I have traveled north, moving from the flat, dry expanse of baked earth and burned rocks to long yellow grass that gives little clue—beyond bent stalks—if I am on the right track.

I doubt Naomi is studying the pictures and sending a message with each one that falls, but the image is disturbing; the desperation and despair of that day echo in me now. For all I know, the wind picked up the page and sent it miles from her course, and I am wandering aimlessly. My mules are thirsty and tired and settle quickly. I sleep in fits and starts, dreaming of Naomi stretched over Oddie’s back, both of them dead and powdered in white. I awake, shaking and sick, and fall back to sleep sometime later only to dream of the white desert again, with a slight variation. It is not Oddie but Naomi who has given up, and I can’t make her move.

I do not know the river’s name or where it will take me, but when the morning comes and I cross to the other side, I can find no sign of a continuing trail. I search the banks up and down, going upstream for half a mile before turning around and going the other direction, scanning the soft soil near the banks. I return to the other side, convinced that Naomi’s captors didn’t cross after all, and search some more, but I cannot find a single print of an obvious path in the grass leading away from the river. I know horses. I know mules. And I know Indians don’t shoe their horses, and mules don’t need to be shod, but I’m no tracker, and I don’t know where to go.

I scan the distance for a flutter of white but see only empty swells and distant mountains and a river that winds away to my right and away to my left. There are no trees to speak of, and no wagon trains. No white men or brown men or horses or herds. No Naomi. I cross to the other side once more; it was where the trail led last night, but I continue to follow the river. The land is dry and the days are hot, and I can’t imagine such a small band would be too far from home. Villages, both permanent and temporary, are erected near the water. Within a few miles, my instinct is rewarded. The river bends, straightens, and turns back, creating a stretch of land with water on three sides.

An Indian village is tucked into the shallow peninsula.

I dismount and lead my mules to the water, keeping my distance. The wickiups look Shoshoni, and I experience a flash of relief followed by a stab of dread. Washakie said Pocatello is Shoshoni. I’m not familiar with the land or the local tribes. Webb and Will could not describe an identifiable trait on the Indians who attacked the train; when I pressed them for details they blanched and cried, and I left it alone.

I have a spyglass in my pack, and I hobble my mules near the water’s edge and find a high spot where I can study the camp without getting too close. From a distance the village is quiet, almost sleepy, as though the whole camp is resting. Horses mill about, and people move in and out of the wickiups, but there is no industry or urgency in the camp, and I am convinced it is a temporary rest stop, a day or two spent beside the river before moving on to somewhere new.

I watch the wickiups for more than an hour, keeping an eye on my mules while I scan every animal in and around the camp, looking for Trick and Tumble, the red horse, or Homer Bingham’s mare. There is no sign of any of them or the goat. I see nothing at all to make me think Naomi and Wolfe are here, but I see another horse that is familiar. He is a deep brown with white forelegs and a dark mane, the white triangle on his forehead pointing down to his nose. Washakie rode a similar horse at Fort Bridger.

Then a woman steps from the doorway of a large wickiup covered in elk skin and heads toward the river. She has a baby in her arms, and her hair is in a long single braid down her back. It is Hanabi. I am sure of it. Children play at the river’s edge, and through the spyglass I can make out the children of Hanabi’s brother. Hanabi appears to be scolding them as a dog bounds up from the banks and races to greet her. He gives a violent shake, and she scurries back toward the wickiup to escape his wet affection.

The children see me coming and run, pointing and yelling. People begin to stream out of the lodges. Some look frightened, and a few men shout, running toward their horses, but I keep my hands raised and ride slowly, greeting them in their own tongue. Most of the men were absent when we camped with the tribe on the Green, and I expected this response. Moments later, Hanabi and Washakie rush from their wickiup. Hanabi is no longer holding her daughter, and she throws her arms wide in excitement like she is welcoming me home.

“You are here, John Lowry!”

Her joy in my presence is both a balm and a blade to my heart, and I slide from my saddle and grasp her hand, my eyes on Washakie, who stands at her side. He is not so joyous or welcoming, but he greets me softly.

“John Lowry.”

“Chief Washakie.”

“Where did you come from?” he asks, his eyes raised to the distance behind me.