Where the Lost Wander(32)

When I check on her, she doesn’t speak to me but lies with her eyes closed and her hands folded. She won’t respond to anyone, though her eyes flutter beneath her lids, and occasionally tears slide down her cheeks. Her son, Jeb, has retreated to the comfort of caring for their animals, and Mr. Caldwell has taken his frustration out on anyone unfortunate enough to cross him. He is throwing gear into the wagons, muttering to himself, rumpled and raging.

“It’s your fault she’s sick, Widow Caldwell,” he snaps at me as I climb down from his wagon.

“How so?” I say, my voice level.

“Have you forgotten Daniel so easily?”

“Daniel’s gone, and I can’t bring him back, Mr. Caldwell.”

He wags his finger at me, jutting out his chin. “You’re glad. You’ve already hitched your wagon to Lowry like we never even mattered.”

Lawrence Caldwell is grieving, but there isn’t a soul in camp who isn’t. He leaves me hollow with his trembling chin, his shaking jowls, and his judgments. Elmeda too. If she dies, it will be because she is desperate to escape him. It is an uncharitable thought, and I bite my tongue so it doesn’t get loose. I turn away, feeling his eyes on my back as I make my way back to our wagons. I can hear Wolfe crying and know I’ve left Ma to fend alone for long enough.

I rush to gather blankets and dishes, scrubbing and folding and packing as quickly as I can, my eyes constantly straying to John Lowry’s tent. Sleep, especially now that the worst has passed, is the best thing for him, but I’ve just about decided to check on him again when he and Webb make their way from a cluster of willow trees rising up from the banks of the shallow creek.

John is pale, his eyes hollow, the angles of his face sharper, but he is upright, he is dressed in fresh clothes, and he is walking toward me, his arm slung around Webb.

“Here he is, Naomi,” Webb crows. “He’s wobbly as baby Wolfe, but he says he’s not sick no more. He even took a bath.”

I rush to them, my eyes searching John’s face, and he smiles a little, though it is more a grimace than a grin.

“Do you think you can travel?” I ask. “Mr. Abbott says we have to move out. We’ve lost so much time. Ma says we can make you a bed in Warren’s wagon. He’s well enough to walk along beside the oxen. Wyatt and Will can drive your mules, especially now that you’ve got less than you did.”

“I can ride.”

“No. You can’t.” I shake my head. “Not yet. Riding in the wagon may not feel like rest, but it’s the best we can do. One day. Maybe two. Please, John.”

He wants to argue, I can see it in the strain around his lips and the furrow on his brow, but he doesn’t. I doubt he has the energy to take me on. He can barely stand.

“I need to gather my animals. I think I can string them to the wagon, now that there are fewer. Will can ride Dame . . . at least for today.”

“I can round ’em up for you, John,” Webb says. “I’ll get Will to help me.”

“I’ll do it, Webb. But you can come too. Walk beside me, like you’re doing now. Keep me steady,” John says. “We’ll bring them in together.”

“John, let the boys go. You need to sit,” I insist.

“Naomi.” John’s voice is low, his eyes soft. “They spook easy, and I need to attend to them. They’ve been neglected for two days.”

I watch the two of them pick their way slowly across the circle and beyond to the line of willow trees that obscures the view. Five minutes later, Webb is back, and John isn’t with him.

“Pa!” Webb hollers. “Pa! Mr. Lowry’s mules are gone. Kettle and Dame too. They’re all gone. We found their picket pins. All of ’em. They got pulled out, like someone went to gather them and the animals got spooked or something.” His little nose is running, and tears stream down his dirty cheeks. “We looked all around. John whistled for Dame, and she didn’t come.”

“Where is John now?” I gasp.

“He doesn’t want to quit looking, but he’s awful weak. He told me to come back and tell Mr. Abbott.”

My brothers, Pa, and Abbott fan out, searching in an ever-widening circle, but within fifteen minutes they all return to camp without the animals in tow. John is with them, but he is gray faced and bent over, and Mr. Abbott insists he sit before he collapses. It is a testament to his condition that he obeys, and I run to him, trying not to cry.

Mr. Abbott blows his little horn, calling everyone together, explaining what has occurred. There is genuine empathy and alarm, and most of the men—those in good health—volunteer to conduct another brief search.

But every man returns empty handed.

I pack John’s tent and gather his things, insisting he conserve his strength, but when Abbott tries to convince him that there is nothing to be done, John just shakes his head.

“We gotta keep going, John,” Mr. Abbott insists. “We’ve been laid up here for two days waiting on you and the others. We’ve got a stretch of country ahead that’s dry and long, and with the number of trains goin’ through, what grass there is will be gone.”

John is frozen in stooped shock, his eyes on Abbott’s face, his hands clasped between his knees. He stands slowly, his expression bleak. He doesn’t argue, but he turns to Pa.