Where the Lost Wander(58)

“What do you love, Pa?” Webb asks, making a game of it.

Pa rattles off a few things—fresh meat, sleep, clean water, a smooth road. All things we haven’t seen much of. Everyone takes a turn until the exercise is exhausted, and we’re all feeling a little forlorn and hungry, reminded of apple tarts and feather beds and warm baths in the kitchen. Elsie Bingham has fallen asleep on her side, her head in her husband’s lap, her arms resting on her belly.

“Will you sing us a song, Ma?” Webb asks when we all fall silent. We’re tired, yet none of us have the energy to ready ourselves for bed.

“I can’t sing tonight, Webb. It tickles my throat. I’ll sing tomorrow when my cough goes away,” Ma says.

“Well, Warren’s on watch, so he can’t tell us a story.” Webb sighs. “Do you know any stories, John?”

A dozen pairs of eyes swing John’s way. We’ve all heard Abbott’s stories more times than we care to, and Pa can’t tell a story to save his soul.

John sets down his cup and straightens, like he’s about to bolt.

“I guess I do,” he says, so quiet that everyone bends their heads toward him to better hear. “I don’t know if this is a true story. Or an old story, or a new story. It’s just something my grandmother told me once, the last time I saw her. It is a story of Hawk, a young Pawnee. Pawnee is what my mother was, what I am too, I suppose—”

“I want to be Pawnee,” Webb interrupts. “How do ya get to be one of those?”

“Well . . . this story is about how Hawk became a Comanche—”

“What’s a Comanche?” Webb asks.

“Webb!” Wyatt growls. “Would ya listen, please? You’re gonna scare John away, and then the rest of us won’t get to hear his story.”

“A Comanche is another tribe. They were the great enemies of the Pawnee. They loved to make war on the Pawnee, and the Pawnee loved to make war on them and steal their horses. One night, Hawk—Kut-a’wi-kutz—who had many horses and was very good at stealing them from the Comanche, sneaked into a Comanche camp. He saw many beautiful horses outside a big lodge.”

“What kind of horses were they?” Webb asks, and Wyatt sighs.

“What do you think?” John asks Webb, not seeming to mind his interruptions.

“One was a dun, one was a roan, and one was a pretty paint,” Webb answers, no hesitation.

“I think you are right. Hawk was just about to take all three of them when he saw a shadow inside the lodge. It was a very handsome lodge with feathers and dried buffalo hooves hanging in the doorway and clattering in the wind, making a noise that sounded like his name. Hawk looked around to make sure no one was there, but the clattering hooves and whispering feathers again made the sound of his name. Kut-a’wi-kutz. He thought maybe someone was calling to him from inside. When Hawk peeked into the lodge, he saw a girl brushing her long hair.”

“Did she look like Naomi?”

“Naomi’s not an Indian,” Mr. Caldwell grunts, and there is a collective discomfort around the fire.

“Yes. She looked just like Naomi,” John says, raising his eyes to mine in brief appraisal, and I smile at his quiet defiance.

“Hawk forgot about the horses. Instead, he watched the girl all night long. When he finally left, he took two of the horses—”

“The roan and the dun,” Webb says.

“All right. But he left the paint, in case it belonged to the girl. He went back home to his people, but every time he saw something pretty, he would think of the Comanche girl, and he would trade one of his horses for the pretty thing, until he had traded almost all his horses.

“His friends said, ‘We must go take more horses from our enemies, the Comanche, for your horses are almost gone.’ So Hawk agreed, but he took all the pretty things he had collected with him.

“Hawk and his friends went back to the place where the Comanche camp had been, but the camp was gone. They went to another camp, but Hawk couldn’t find the lodge of the girl, and he left the camp without stealing any horses. His friends didn’t understand. Hawk said, ‘Let’s go find another camp, and we will steal their horses.’ They went to another camp, and another, and Hawk did not steal the horses at any of them; he just looked for the girl.

“At the last Comanche camp, Hawk crept among the lodges, looking for the lodge with the buffalo hooves and the feathers. Then he heard his name, Kut-a’wi-kutz, and knew he had found it. He went into the lodge, and there was the girl, fast asleep. He put all the pretty things he had collected for her at her feet and then lay down beside her, for he was very tired from searching.”

Mr. Caldwell scoffs and shakes his head, as if the story has suddenly turned inappropriate.

“What happened then? Did she wake up and scream?” Webb asks, oblivious to any unease.

“She did wake up, but it was dark, and she could not see who was there. She reached out and touched Hawk’s hair. The Pawnee warriors shave all their hair except for this piece right here.” John reaches out and tugs softly on the hank of Webb’s hair between his crown and his forehead.

“Like Dog Tooth,” Wyatt contributes soberly. He says he still dreams of being chased by the band of Pawnee.

“Yes.” John nods. “The girl was afraid because she knew Hawk was Pawnee. But his skin was cold, and he was sleeping so deeply that she took pity on him and put her blanket over his shoulders before she sneaked out of the lodge and went to find her father, who was the head chief of the Comanche.”