Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(90)

The scarred warrior wins easily, a victory that seems to have been expected, though the anger and upset among the racers and the watchers is evident. Magwich is among those who have lost a horse in the contest. He demands a new race, but he is roundly ignored as his horse is led away by one of the scarred one’s tribesmen. A new round of betting has begun, and I make my way toward the triumphant winner. He sees me coming and cocks his head, the conversation around him waning. They are surprised at my presence; I should be long gone. Everyone stares.

I did not want this; I thought I might be able to negotiate quietly, but I continue forward, leading the dun and keeping my eyes straight ahead on the warrior.

“You want to race, Pani daipo?” the man asks as I near. He knows who I am. I’m guessing they all do. If these men didn’t see for themselves what happened in the council, they heard about it.

“No,” I say, stopping in front of him.

He frowns. “No?”

“I want the—” I realize I don’t know the word for picture in Shoshoni. “I want the paper faces Magwich gave you.” There is a murmur at his name, like my words are being repeated, and I know I am courting trouble.

“You have the Face Woman,” the scarred warrior says. “You do not need her drawings.”

“They are the faces of her people. Her people are gone.”

He is silent, considering. He turns away, holding up his hand for me to wait, and returns seconds later with Naomi’s satchel. He opens the latch and pulls out a stack of loose pages. Winifred May looks up at me, and I am flooded with sudden grief.

“I do not want to give them to you,” he says. His tone is not belligerent, and no one laughs; he simply speaks the truth: he does not want to part with them.

“There are many,” I rasp, trying to speak around my emotion. “I do not need them all.”

He nods, acknowledging this. I pull a pouch of tobacco from my saddlebag and point at the picture of Winifred. “I need that one.”

He frowns, considering this for a second. Then he nods, and I hand him the tobacco. He gives me the picture on top, revealing a drawing of Warren, his face pensive and tired, his hair sticking up from his brow, staring off into a distance he’ll never reach.

“I need that one too,” I say, digging for my beads. The scarred warrior purses his lips, studying the picture, but then hands it over too, taking my trade. I exchange the ribbon for a sketch of William, the kerchief for a picture of a laughing Webb, and then I have nothing more to trade. A stack of precious images remains in the warrior’s hands. He puts them back in the satchel and closes the top.

“I will give you the dun for all of them,” I say. I’m no good at this. I want them too much, and he knows it. He looks at the dun, appreciative, but he shakes his head.

“It is a good horse, but I don’t need another horse. I have won many horses. Fifty horses. Wahatehwe always wins!” He yells these last words, goading the men around him, and some whoop and some hiss.

“I will beat you, Wahatehwe!” someone yells back. It is Magwich, and he is astride another horse.

“I have beat you ten times, Magwich. You will have no horses left. Who else will race me?”

He waits, his arms extended in challenge, but no one answers. He laughs, shrugging it off. “No one wants to race me now. Wahatehwe always wins.”

“I will race you,” I say. The men around us crow in excitement. “And if I win, I get Face Woman’s pictures.”

“I will race you both!” Magwich yells. “And if I win, I will take the woman and my horses.”

“I will not race for the woman, and I will not race Magwich,” I say, my eyes on Wahatehwe. “Only you. For the pictures.” I do not yell or even raise my voice, but the men around us spread the word.

“If I win? What do I get?” Wahatehwe says, but I can tell he wants to accept, regardless.

“You do not need another horse,” I remind him. He laughs, teeth flashing. His big scar makes his smile droop on one side, and I like him more for it.

“If I win, Face Woman will paint another skin for me,” he says, but I hesitate again.

“Face Woman is not well,” I say. Naomi is not well, and I need her pictures. Wahatehwe frowns and looks at Magwich. He grunts and looks back at me, his gaze hard. I don’t think he likes Magwich, and my esteem for him rises again.

“We will race. If you win, I will give you the pictures. If I win . . . I will keep them. That is all,” he says.

“Let’s race!” Magwich shouts.

Wahatehwe looks at me, his eyes speculative. “Magwich is angry. I said I would give him all the horses he lost in exchange for the Face Woman. Five horses. He decided the woman was more valuable. Now he has no horses and no woman. And he continues to lose.”

Magwich is going to lose his life if I remain in his presence, but I say nothing.

Wahatehwe looks away and raises his voice, addressing the gamblers.

“Wahatehwe and the Pani daipo will race. Not Magwich.”

“You are afraid of Magwich!” Magwich yells from atop his horse. Wahatehwe ignores him. I ignore him. A cry goes up, and bets are placed, and I send a boy from Washakie’s band back for my saddle. It’s outside my tent, the only tent in a valley of wickiups and tipis; he won’t have any trouble finding it. Washakie has arrived. He sits at the edge of the clearing astride his dark horse with the white star and stays clear of the gambling. If he has raced at all, I don’t know, but I doubt he would risk that horse. Pocatello and his men are at the starting line, placing their bets; Magwich is complaining to whomever will listen.