Where the Lost Wander(92)
He gasps and grabs at his belly, but he is dead before I jerk my knife free. Then I rise to my feet, bloodied and tattered, my blade up and ready for whatever is next.
I expect a rush of knife-wielding Shoshoni, but I am greeted by a brief silence followed by whoops and wails and nothing more. Wahatehwe raises his arms and howls, and Washakie does the same. Some of Pocatello’s men come forward out of the circle, their eyes cautious. One asks if I will take the scalp. My stomach rebels, and I shake my head, refusing the rite. They lift Magwich onto their shoulders, his blood spilling down their backs and onto the ground, but no one rushes me with a spear or a blade. No one confronts me at all. Someone shrieks in mourning, and many voices join in as the body leaves the clearing, but like the final decision at the council, the matter is decided. It is done. Magwich challenged, and Magwich lost. I pick up the satchel, covered with dust and splattered with blood, and go in search of my horse.
NAOMI
I awake to distant wolves wailing, and I am alone in John’s tent. It is midafternoon, and I have slept for hours; I could sleep for hours more, but the sound rising up beyond the encampment has me crawling out of the tent to see what new hell has arrived. No one in the camp seems especially concerned by the noise, though many are gathered near Hanabi’s wickiup. The chief, Washakie, is speaking, and both men and women are listening intently, their eyes wide, mouths agape, like he is relaying a tale. Occasionally another brave cuts in, providing added emphasis or explanation—I can’t tell which—and then Washakie continues. But I hear John’s name.
Then I see John.
He is leading the dun toward the camp, and both he and the horse are caked in dust and blood. Everyone in Washakie’s camp exclaims, and a few run toward him, but he lifts his hand the way he does with his animals, reassuring them, quieting them. I want to run to him too, but I stay rooted to the spot. There is too much blood—his clothes are soaked in it—and my legs have gone numb. John scans beyond the heads of those huddled around him and sees me. He moves through the people, and they part for him. I think one asks to take the horse, but he shakes his head and leads the dun toward me. Hanabi claps her hands, snapping something, and the people disperse, leaving us in relative solitude.
“Are you hurt?” I choke, trying not to look at him, willing the bile in my belly to settle. I pin my eyes to the western sky beyond his shoulder. For months I’ve been looking at the western sky, walking toward it, but now I’m standing still.
“No. The blood isn’t mine,” he says, calm. Quiet.
“Okay,” I say. Nodding.
“You need to sit,” he says. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“I’m fine.” He reaches out a hand to steady me, and I step back. I don’t mean to. I just do, and he drops his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll go to the creek to wash.”
“I’ll get you a fresh shirt,” I whisper. “And your soap and towel.” He protests, but I turn away—I run away—and he lets me go. I search his packs just inside the tent with shaking hands and sip some water from the canteen John left beside me while I was sleeping.
When I reach the creek, he’s already stripped off everything but his pants and submerged himself in the water, washing most of the blood from his skin and hair. He seems more concerned with the dun and is using a tin cup to pour water over his back and his legs, cleaning away the gore and the grime. The horse has a cut on his flank about an inch wide, but it oozes like it’s deep. I hand John the soap and then sink down into the grass with his shirt and towel, not trusting myself to stand.
Some of the blood is John’s. He wasn’t completely honest about that. A long, shallow slice crisscrosses his stomach, and there’s a small gash on his cheekbone.
“Your satchel is there.” He points with his chin, indicating the grass beside me. “I think if I wipe it with a cloth and oil it up some, it’ll be as good as new. You might want to check the pictures inside. There are a few more in that saddlebag.” Another lift of his chin. “I had to roll them to make them fit, but they’re there.”
I stare at the battered satchel and touch the clasp, stunned. It’s dusty and spattered, but it’s here. I open the cover and check the contents, the thick white pages filled with the faces I can’t look at right now. I close it again, overwhelmed with dumbfounded gratitude.
“How?” I whisper. “How did you find them?”
“The scarred warrior—Wahatehwe—gave them back.”
“He gave them back?” I gasp, but John isn’t listening anymore. He’s dunked himself in the creek again and is scrubbing his hair and skin with the soap like he can’t bear to look at me either.
Someone calls out behind me in Shoshoni, and I turn to see the same scarred warrior walking toward the creek, leading five horses. The same five horses he offered Magwich in trade for me. My chest grows tight, and my stomach twists, but John stands, the water sluicing off his hair and his body, and greets the man. John introduces him—his name, Wahatehwe, is beautiful on John’s tongue—but I don’t look up. I ignore them both. The scarred warrior and I have already met, and I would rather forget him.
They converse for a moment, and I feel Wahatehwe’s eyes touching on me before he turns away, but he leaves the horses behind. They bow their heads beside the creek and drink, unconcerned with his departure.