Where the Lost Wander(85)

“I gotta get my mind right,” I whisper. “Gotta find transcendence.” But I’ve already begun to float away.





JOHN


The valley is teeming with tapered tipis and domed wickiups on the morning we arrive. Camp after camp, thousands of people, thousands of horses, and a billion dogs. It is worse than the hills of St. Joe during the jump-off season. Washakie and his chiefs move up into the lead as we slowly proceed through the Gathering. A slice of the valley has been left open for him, one that extends up from the surrounding creek to an enormous circle in the center, where the people seem to congregate. I cannot help but scan the faces, searching desperately for sight of Naomi, but the numbers are too vast, and though we wind our way through the camps, Washakie and some of his men greeting other leaders of other bands, I do not see her. Washakie says that we are the last to arrive, but he does not prolong my agony.

“I will not go to Pocatello’s camp, but Hanabi and some of the other women will visit. There is good feeling among the Newe, even if their chiefs do not see eye to eye. They will look among the women for your wife and her brother. If they are here, I will call a council. We will not cause panic or raise an alarm. That would not be good for your woman or the tua.”

Washakie and some of the men go to watch the horses race and mingle among the warriors of other tribes. I see to my mules and help Lost Woman set up Washakie’s big wickiup and start a fire for cooking. The women seem to carry the brunt of the labor in the tribe. It is no different among the Pawnee. The men kill the meat, but the women skin it, quarter it, pack it, and drag it home. Then they cut it into strips, dry it, pound it, dry it some more, and pack it up again. They gather the wood and prepare the skins and herd the children and feed the tribe, and the work never relents.

Lost Woman works quietly, efficiently, and she stays close to me. I haven’t spoken more than a few words to her since I arrived, but she sleeps in Washakie’s wickiup, she knows my story, and she senses my snakes.

“You are scared,” she says.

“I am. If she is not here . . .” I can’t finish. If Naomi isn’t here, I don’t know what I’ll do.

“She will not be lost forever,” Lost Woman reassures me quietly, and I pray forever ends today. We wait for hours. I don’t know the customs or the traditions that occur in a visit between tribes, and I even crawl into my tent and try to sleep, exhausted by not knowing. Lost Woman promises to wake me, but I know the moment the women return, and I have scrambled out of my tent before she has time to alert me. Washakie and his men have returned as well.

Washakie’s face has no expression, but Hanabi runs to me.

“She is here. The babe too,” she says, slightly breathless.

I am overcome with relief and cannot stand. When I sink to my knees, Hanabi crouches beside me and takes my hand.

“The boy has fattened since I saw him. He is well.” She is smiling, but there is something else. I can see it in Washakie’s face. Hanabi is trying to buoy me up, but there is something wrong. His people are watching, and Washakie extends his hand, helping me to my feet.

“Come,” he says, and I follow him to his wickiup, Hanabi and Lost Woman at my heels.

“Tell him everything,” Washakie says to Hanabi.

“They have given the boy to a woman who lost her baby only days before the attack. Her husband, Biagwi, spared the Wolfe boy because of this. It was Biagwi’s brother the arrow killed,” Hanabi says.

“They talk of the attack?” Somehow I imagined they would try to conceal what was done.

“They call it a battle. Weda, Biagwi’s woman, is very proud. She did not hide the Wolfe boy,” Hanabi says.

“A battle?” I gasp.

“One of their own was lost,” Hanabi reminds me, and her gentle voice is a lash against my skin.

“It was not a fair fight,” I hiss.

“To them, it was. And it was a battle they did not start.”

“And Naomi?”

“We saw her, but she was taken away as soon as we arrived,” Hanabi says.

“The men are talking about her. She is Magwich’s woman now,” Washakie says softly. “She lives in his wickiup. They say she paints faces—waipo—on the skins. She is valuable to him, and he will not trade her.”

“She is called Face Woman,” Hanabi says. “It is good, brother. If she is valued, she will be safe.”

“She is valuable to him,” I whisper. My mind is reeling, and I’m going to be sick. I will kill this Magwich, and I will kill anyone who tries to stop me. If I die, it could not be a worse hell than this.

Washakie touches my shoulder, and his eyes are bleak. He sees what is in my heart, and he’s troubled by it.

“I have sent word to the leader of every band. We will meet in council at nightfall. You will come. You will tell them what has been done. You will ask for the woman and the child to be returned. And I will speak for you.”





NAOMI


I saw Hanabi. I thought she saw me too, but I’m not sure. Her baby was strapped to her back, just like before. Beeya is skittish, and we haven’t left the wickiup since Hanabi and the women came to visit. John said Hanabi’s husband’s name was Washakie. He met him at Fort Bridger and was greatly impressed.

I’ve heard the name Washakie many times since we arrived in the valley. He is admired among the Shoshoni. They are all Shoshoni. The same people who killed my family fed my family. The woman who nursed my mother’s child sits with the woman who stole my mother’s child. And I am lost.