Where the Lost Wander(34)

I trust they will, but I don’t trust Lawrence Caldwell. I have no doubt he pulled the pins and scattered my animals. Someone did. It wasn’t random, and no one else in the train was missing a single cow. Caldwell loosed them and then drove them out with a slap and a whistle, maybe rattling something or making his whip writhe in the grass to make them bolt. Whatever he did, they’re gone. Rustling among travelers in the same train isn’t much of a problem because there is nowhere to hide the stolen livestock. But there is no surer way to doom a man than to scatter his animals.

Every so often I whistle, a shrill gull-like shriek that dissipates in the guileless skies, but the action exhausts me, and I abandon even that. All my strength is centered on staying in the saddle. I trust Wyatt to scan the swales and search the banks, and I close my eyes against the pulsing expanse.

I hold on for an hour, then another, clinging to my saddle as we reach the place where we crossed the Platte two days before. The Pawnee village is across the river, the fort too, though it is a good ten miles farther east. There are no trains crossing today. The silence is a sharp contrast to the bellows and brays of our passage, the shrieks and squeals of wheels and women. I scooped Naomi up from the water and into my saddle with no difficulty at all. Now I can barely lift my own head. I consider fording the river again, returning to Fort Kearny and sending Wyatt back to his family with Trick and Tumble. I have no doubt I can find work there; Captain Dempsey will be glad to have my mule-breeding expertise for a week or two. I’ll make enough to get a horse to make the journey back to St. Joe.

“There’s the Hastingses’ dining room table,” Wyatt says, pointing. “You’d think they woulda put it to use.” I know what he means. Coffins have been constructed from sideboards and wagon beds, from crates and boxes and anything else people had. The Hastingses’ table could have provided proper burial for three grown men, including the hired man who died of cholera driving their wagon.

The Hastingses hauled the damn thing across the Platte in their huge Conestoga, only to decide they weren’t hauling it a step farther. Their hired man—the one still living—shoved it out onto the prairie, bidding it good riddance as he tossed out six tufted chairs to keep it company. Someone thought it amusing to set the table upright and tuck the chairs in around it. Buzzards circle overhead as though waiting for dinner to be served. It is the only good shade for miles, and buzzards or not, I can’t continue.

“I gotta stop, Wyatt. Just for a bit,” I whisper, but he hears me and has slid from his saddle before I can untie the rope around my waist. I am much bigger than the boy, and he teeters beneath my weight but manages to half drag, half carry me to the abandoned table, pulling out a chair so I can climb beneath it. He shoves something beneath my head, lays my rifle beside me, and forces some water down my throat. I am asleep before I can thank him.

I dream of Charlie and the Pawnee village, of Kettle being bred to Indian ponies and throwing foals with human faces.

“What are you going to do, half man?” an Indian woman asks in my mother’s voice.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know. She pats my cheeks, her hands insistent.

“Pítku ásu’.” Two Feet. Put one foot in front of the other, Two Feet.

“Mr. Lowry. Mr. Lowry, wake up.” Wyatt is trying to rouse me. Memory floods back, and the Indian woman is gone, along with my mother’s voice.

“C?ikstit karasku?” Wyatt asks. Are you well? I peer up at him, disoriented and dry mouthed. Wyatt doesn’t speak Pawnee.

“What?” I moan.

“What happened to you, Mr. Lowry? Why are you here?”

It isn’t Wyatt. It’s Charlie. They are Charlie’s hands, and it is Charlie’s voice. I reach for my canteen, not sure if it’s real, not certain Charlie is real, or if I am still caught in the dream space. Charlie helps me drink, holding my head the way Wyatt did, and the warm slosh of liquid down my throat convinces me I’m awake.

“Where is Wyatt?” I croak. I do not ask in Pawnee, but Charlie seems to understand.

“There is no one here but me and you, Mr. Lowry. Me, you, Dame, and your jack.”

Relief washes through me, and I peer beyond him. Kettle is partially hidden behind Dame, but I can see his spindly legs and the tips of his big ears. Dame chuffs and extends her long nose toward me in greeting.

“They came back to the fort, back to their friends,” Charlie continues in Pawnee. “Captain Dempsey said something must have happened to you, and he said I should bring them back across the Platte, just in case you were looking for them. When I saw you, I thought you were dead. This is a strange lodge.” He pats the table with a cheeky grin.

“And my mules? Any sign of my mules?”

“No.” Charlie shakes his head. “What has happened to you?” he asks again. “Where is your train?”

“Help me stand,” I plead, and Charlie shoves the table out of the way so he can get above me. He wraps his arms around my chest and hoists me up, grunting a little at our mismatched size. He is probably the age of Wyatt but several inches shorter and much leaner.

“Is that your . . . Wyatt?” Charlie asks, pointing to a rider racing toward us, ringed in dust and leading a mule. For a moment I think I am seeing double, then treble, and beyond him the cloud grows as if he leads an army.