Where the Lost Wander(75)
“Where’s the rest of the train?” he shouts over the squeal of the wheels. “Where the hell are the wagons?”
The two boys have begun to run, their arms and legs pumping, their shaggy hair bouncing around them. They see us too. Neither of them is wearing hats or shoes—not that Webb ever does—and they are very much alone.
The distance between us is a thousand miles, and I am gripped with dread. For a moment, everything slows and fades, and all I hear is the sound of my heart drowning out everything else. Then I am reining in the mules and jumping down from the seat with my gun and my canteen, running across the uneven ground toward the news I don’t want to hear. Will collapses at my feet, and Webb clings to my legs. I pull Webb up into my arms, and Wyatt tries to help Will stand, but Will’s legs give out again, and Wyatt kneels beside him.
“Will?” Wyatt says, putting his arm around his brother. “Will, what happened? Where is the train?”
“I d-don’t know. They w-w-went on,” Will stammers. “Pa broke a wheel, and Mrs. Bingham was having her b-b-baby.” He’s begun to shake so hard he’s bouncing.
I make him drink a little water, Webb too, though he’s crying and struggles to swallow. And then they tell us the rest.
“Indians,” Will says. “I k-killed one. I didn’t mean to. And then they killed Pa and W-Warren. They killed Mr. B-B-Bingham. And they b-b-burned the w-wagons. The wagons are gone. Ma’s g-g-gone too.”
“We hid in the rocks,” Webb cries, interrupting him. “We hid in the rocks for a long time, and the wagons burned. Will wouldn’t let me up. He laid on top of me and covered my mouth. I woulda killed ’em. I woulda saved Naomi.”
Each breath burns my throat and scalds my chest, but I ask the question.
“Where is she? What happened to Naomi?”
Wyatt is shaking his head, adamant, denying everything he’s heard, but tears are streaming from his eyes. Will is crying now too, and it is Webb who answers me.
“They took Naomi,” Webb cries, lifting his shattered eyes to mine. “They took her away.”
About a mile down the rutted path, I halt the wagon again and make the boys wait for me inside. One wagon is a pile of smoking embers. One wagon is only partially burned, the cover hanging in ashy shreds, like the fire never caught hold.
“Maybe they’re not dead,” Webb insists. And his face carries the hope and dread of every question not yet answered, but Will knows.
“They’re dead, Webb,” he whispers, and he covers his face.
Wyatt wants to come with me, but I threaten to tie him down if he sets foot outside the wagon. “You stay here with Webb and Will. And you don’t come out, none of you, until I come back for you.” Wyatt’s holding his rifle, and his face is striped with dust and tears, but his jaw is set like he’s ready to fight.
“Stay here,” I repeat, holding his gaze. He nods once, his hands flexing on his gun, and I turn away and cock my own. I won’t need it, but I bring it anyway.
I study the scene as I approach. Two wagons, one partially burned and the other a pile of smoking rubble. The oxen weren’t taken. They’re bunched together around a watering hole, none the worse for wear. They lift their heads as I near and watch as I discover the bodies beyond them.
The top of William May’s head is a raw, bubbled wound. Blood discolors the ground between him and Warren, who is facedown, his splayed feet at his father’s head. Homer Bingham is turned away, his back to the others, but his arms are flung forward, reaching for something, clawing at the dirt as though he attempted to crawl to his wife but made it a mere foot before succumbing to the destroyer who took the top of his head.
The indignity of the death stuns me. Not just the death itself. I have seen death, but not like this, and a deep, inexplicable shame wells up in my chest. This is death I don’t understand. I can do nothing for them but give them some dignity and shield them from the eyes of the boys waiting in my wagon. Using a bit of water and my handkerchief, I do my best to clean off the worst of the blood from their faces and pull their hats over the clotted mess on the tops of their heads. And then I brace myself for what is next.
The May wagon fared better than the other wagon, though the cover is gone and the box is black. I know it’s William’s because it’s missing a wheel. Inside the May wagon are blackened provisions and sooty blankets, but that is all. The straps that kept the feed box and the water barrel attached to the side have melted and snapped, releasing their cargo. The barrel has rolled to a stop near the smoldering remains of the other wagon.
Nothing is left of the Bingham wagon but the charred skeleton and a single willow branch jutting up from the remains. An iron dutch oven, none the worse for wear, sits amid a rounded pile of debris I can’t distinguish. It radiates heat and an acrid stench, and I make myself approach it.
There is very little left of them, no hair, no shape, no flesh at all. I cannot tell who is who or the details of their suffering. What is left is just a charred suggestion of two bodies clothed in ash, lying side by side, and obscured by a four-foot section of the wagon box that has collapsed against them. My throat aches, my heart thrums, and I can’t feel my hands. I turn away and steady my breaths.
I don’t know what to do.
Winifred. William. Warren. The Binghams. The boys. Naomi.
“ka’a,” I moan. “Naomi.”