Where the Lost Wander(87)

“You have taken something that is not yours,” Washakie says, addressing Magwich. “You stole a man’s wife, and you have no claim.” He turns to Pocatello, and his voice is cold and hard. “You will call death and vengeance down upon your people, upon all the Shoshoni people, with your white scalps.”

Pocatello is angry at the admonishment, and he stands from the council. “You are afraid of the white man. You bow to his demands. We did not attack first. They did.”

The crowd rumbles. It is not going well.

“Bring the woman and the child here,” an old chief says, and the leaders around the fire nod in agreement. “And we will decide what is to be done.”

Biagwi protests and Magwich sputters, but Pocatello barks a sharp order, and the men leave to do his bidding. Washakie does not sit again but remains standing at my side. Pocatello remains standing as well, his arms folded, his expression black. And we wait for the men to return.

Biagwi’s woman carries Wolfe in her arms, his blond head clutched to her breast. She is afraid. Biagwi is afraid. He has one hand at the woman’s back and one hand on his spear. He is tense, grim, and I see in him the same violent strain that hums beneath my skin.

Then I see Naomi. She is dressed like the Shoshoni women, beads at her throat and her ears, her ruddy-brown hair pulled back in a braid and swinging at her waist. Her green eyes are huge in her thin face, and her hands are stained with paint. When she sees me, she stumbles, and Magwich drags her to her feet. An old woman follows behind them, moaning and wailing like someone has died.

“John?” Naomi cries. “John?” And her legs give out again.

I want to go to her, but Washakie extends his arm across my chest. “No, brother.”

The old chief raises his hands for silence. He has taken on the role of mediator, and the people quiet. He looks at me. “You will tell the woman we have questions for her. You will tell us what she says.”

I nod and look at Naomi. She is only ten feet away, but Magwich has not released her arm. I tell him to step away, and he tightens his grip.

“Let go,” I shout, and the old chief shoos him off. Magwich releases her and takes a single step to the side, bracing his feet and gripping his blade.

“Naomi, they want you to answer their questions,” I say in Shoshoni and then in English, doing my best to ignore him.

She nods, her eyes clinging to my face.

“Who is this man?” the old chief says to Naomi, pointing at me. I translate.

“John Lowry. He is my husband.” Her voice breaks, and she says it again, louder.

“Who is the child?” the chief asks, pointing at Wolfe.

“He is my brother,” Naomi responds.

“She cannot feed him,” Biagwi shouts. “She is not his mother and has no milk in her breasts.”

The chief begs silence again, and we continue on, the old chief asking questions while I interpret, and Naomi responding. Washakie steps in when the old chief asks where the wagons were. He knows the area and the Shoshoni names; he knows the path the emigrants take. There is sympathy in the audience. I can feel it, and I feel the moment it slips again.

“Who killed first?” the old chief asks Naomi, and she hesitates, her chest rising and falling in distress.

“We didn’t see them. We didn’t know they were there. It was an accident,” Naomi pleads, and when I translate, Pocatello begins to yell.

“They attacked us! They chose to fight.”

The old chief raises his hands again, pleading for order.

“Let him take his woman. That is just. But the child stays,” Biagwi cries out, his voice ringing above the din, the firelight dancing on his skin. Magwich spits, but everyone else falls silent.

Naomi is frantic, her eyes shifting wildly from one face to the next, trying to understand what has happened.

“Release them both. Biagwi’s brother was avenged,” Washakie says, his voice booming, but the leaders around the fire shake their heads.

“We will vote,” the old chief says. And the pipe is passed once more. One by one, the leaders state their opinions. Washakie says release them both. Pocatello says keep them both. The rest agree with Biagwi. A brother for a brother. The woman holding Wolfe is weeping, and Biagwi shakes his spear at the sky. Naomi stands amid the crush, her face bright with terrible hope, Magwich beside her, the old woman wailing and holding on to her arm. The old chief stands and points from Naomi to me.

“Go,” he says to her in English and again in Shoshoni. The old woman releases Naomi like she’s taken an arrow in the chest, screaming and falling to the ground, and Magwich turns away, giving his back to the council. Naomi runs toward me, her mouth trembling and tears streaming, her stained hands fisted in her skirts. And then she is in my arms, her face buried in my chest.

“Take the woman and go in peace,” the old chief says to me.

“What about the boy?” I shout, desperate, my arms braced around Naomi. But the leaders are standing; the council is finished. The decision is made.

“He will be raised as a son, like you were. A two-feet,” Washakie says. “Biagwi is a man of honor. The boy will not be harmed.” He has not moved from my side, but his eyes are on the woman in my arms, who does not yet understand.

“John . . . what about Wolfe?” Naomi starts to pull back, searching my face, searching for Wolfe. And Washakie turns away.