Where the Lost Wander(77)

“I can’t go with you. You gotta take care of each other so I can take care of Naomi and Wolfe,” I say. “Listen to Wyatt. Mind him. Webb, you take care of Kettle and the mules. They’re May mules now. Will, you keep looking after Webb.”

Webb throws himself into my arms, and I reach out for Will, who is pale and quiet. His tears have dried and his eyes are hollow, but he lets me take his hand.

“All of this is my fault, John,” Will says. “I killed one, and that’s why they attacked us.”

“You can’t take the blame for what other men do. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know the why of it. But I know this—you saved your brother, and you kept your head. I’m proud of you.”

“I hate them. I hate Indians,” Webb cries, his voice muffled by my shoulder.

“Do you hate me?” I ask quietly. “I’m an Indian.”

“No. I love you.”

“And I love you too. There’s good and bad in all kinds of people. Indians and emigrants alike. Do you remember when Mr. Caldwell set my animals loose?”

“Yeah. I hate Mr. Caldwell too,” Webb sobs.

“Do you remember my friend Hanabi? And Charlie? They helped us. Without Charlie . . . Wyatt and I wouldn’t have made it back to you and the others,” I remind him. “So you be real careful about who you hate.”

Webb is quiet, and I ease him back from my arms.

“It’s time to go now,” I say.

“I’m scared, John,” Will says.

“I know. I’m scared too. But we all have jobs to do. And we’re going to do them.”

I watch as my wagon pulls out, lurching from side to side, Wyatt prodding the oxen along with his father’s staff, Webb and Will staring back at me, framed by the oval opening in the wagon cover.





16





NOWHERE


NAOMI


Wolfe sleeps, and I stagger. For miles and miles, I stagger. I am accustomed to walking, but I am not accustomed to being dragged, and the pace we’ve kept is mild for the horses but bruising for a woman with a child in her arms. My skin is slick and my dress damp with sweat. The cut beneath my eye stings, and my head throbs in time with my steps, but like everything else, the sensation is distant; I recognize it, the way I recognize that the sun has moved in the sky and there is a pebble wedged into the hole in my shoe. I keep my eyes forward, on the trail of black feathers one Indian wears in his hair. They extend all the way down his back to the top of his leather leggings. I have not looked behind me. No one follows, and I am afraid that if I turn my head, I will fall and will not find my feet again, or worse, Wolfe will be taken from my arms.

Ma says the things we fear most tend to find us. Just like Job from the Bible. People think the Lord was testing him—and Ma said He was—but she said that wasn’t the only thing to be learned from Job. For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me.

“Some trouble can’t be avoided. Some you must face. Job was the best of men. Yet trouble still came.”

We reach a river and cross it, and the men let the animals drink. They don’t remove the rope at my neck but drop it, shooing me toward the water. I shuffle down the banks and collapse beside Gert. I am trembling, and I pull too hard on her teat, making her bleat and spraying Wolfe in the face, but I manage to work a stream of milk into his mouth for several minutes before I am pulled up again, away from the river. I did not get a chance to drink. We veer northwest, away from the river. I am thirsty, and Wolfe has started to wail. I beg the men to stop, but they ride on unconcerned until Wolfe’s cries become ragged sighs, and he sleeps again.

The sun is sinking, and we are nearing a camp. A cry goes up, and I know we’ve been seen. The fear that floated above me all day is perched on my shoulders now, and my back is fiery with the strain of staying upright. Dogs bark and rush my legs, and I trip over one. Wolfie’s bunting is soaked through, and the smell of urine is strong. The warriors celebrate with yipping and spears and shields lifted high. The scalps dance, and I sway. The man on the painted pony slides to the ground and with no warning yanks Wolfe from me. My arms are cramped and will not straighten, and I cannot even reach for him. The painted brave hands Wolfe to a woman, who stares at my brother with disdain. She sets him on the ground and turns away. The man calls after her, and he is angry. He picks Wolfe up again and follows her. I am encircled by women and children who tug at my clothes and pull at my hair. One woman slaps my face, and the cut beneath my eye begins to flow once more. I cover my head with my unbending arms, and I push through the crowd toward Wolfe. I hear him crying, but the sound recedes as he is carried away. I scream for him, and the Indian children throw back their little heads and howl too. I realize they are copying me, and his name is like the call of the wolves.

Then the women are moaning and crying too as the dead man is pulled from his horse, the grieving of the village rising like a sudden storm, the kind that sent the waters rushing down the Platte without warning. One of the men slides from his horse, then moves into the circle of women and children and buries his hand in my hair, yanking my head back. He turns my head this way and that, talking all the while. With the hand not gripping my hair, he parts my lips with a dirty finger, and I taste horse and blood. He cracks a knuckle against my teeth and snaps his own, as though my teeth please him. The finger that is in my mouth moves to my left eye, and he peels back my eyelid. I cry out, trying to twist away, but he seems entranced by the color of my eyes. He is showing everyone, wrenching my head, keeping my eye pinned open. A woman spits, and I am blinded by the glob of saliva. The man releases my face but not my hair, and I am dragged, stumbling, behind him, trying to keep my feet beneath me, my hands wrapped around his wrist to prevent my hair from being torn out by the roots. I can’t imagine being scalped would hurt much more.