Where the Lost Wander(96)
He feels guilt when he is happy. We both do. We don’t talk about my brothers—any of them—but they, even more than Ma and Pa, are always with us, waiting. Watching. Disturbing the peace between us. In the quiet darkness of the wickiup, we have all the privacy we once longed for, but I feel the weight of a dozen May eyes, and I cannot turn to him, even though I want to. Even though I need to. Even though he needs me.
I don’t know where Wolfe is or if he’s well, and it haunts me. But I’m comforted by one truth: Weda can do what I cannot. She can feed Wolfe. She can keep him alive, for now. Washakie has promised John that when the hunt is over, the meat dried, and the skins readied, we will go to the valley where Pocatello winters, and we will stay until the snows melt. After that, I don’t know.
I watch from the plateau, sitting with the women and looking down on the matted, humped backs of the buffalo below, our horses grazing behind us. They are saddled with the empty packs and the tethered poles we will use to pack the meat when the hunt is over, but for now, we just watch.
We are only twenty feet above the meadow; the jutting cliff face provides a place to observe without getting in the way or trampled by the herd if they swing too close, and judging from the excitement among the women, I don’t think our view is typical. Hanabi keeps saying, “Naomi! See? See?” and clapping her hands. I do see, and my heart is pounding with dread and anticipation. John says Dakotah and Washakie will do the hard part, but knowing John, I am not convinced.
The men have made a wide circle around the herd and carry long spears, and as we watch, they begin closing in, working in teams, isolating a bull or a cow and running it down. John is with Washakie and another brave named Pampi, and he races along behind them as Washakie and Pampi engage in the dance of bringing down a two-thousand-pound bull.
It is a bloody art, and I stare transfixed as Washakie, hanging from his horse at a dead run, slashes the bull’s hind legs with his spear, severing its hamstring so it collapses midstride. The bull careens, his momentum sending him end over end as Pampi, running toward the buffalo at full speed, raises his bow and shoots, putting an arrow in the bull’s neck.
Washakie whoops, and they are off again, but this time it is Pampi who chases the buffalo down with his spear and Washakie who comes in on the angle, John on his heels. Pampi dangles, slashing at the bull’s legs, and Washakie shouts and veers to the side, leaving John to take the shot. He raises his rifle, bearing down into the path of the animal at full speed, and shoots without hesitation, right above the bull’s eyes. The bull slides, coming dangerously close to the dancing legs of the dun. I scream, but the horse doesn’t balk or bolt. Lost Woman pats my leg, Hanabi crows, and across the meadow, Washakie whoops in victory. John does the same, shaking his rifle in the air, his white teeth flashing, his chest heaving. Then they are off again, selecting a bull, turning him, and chasing him down.
When the hunt is over, the harried herd pounding away to safer pastures, fifty buffalo lie dead in the yellow grass: two buffalo for every family, one for me and John, and one for the feast that will feed the whole camp for days.
John returns to the buffalo-strewed field, shirtless and smiling, joyful even. With Lost Woman demonstrating, he helps me split the buffalo from its head to its tail, peeling back the hide to remove the meat from its back before tying two ropes to its front and hind legs and using the horses to flip it over. We repeat the action on the other side, slicing the buffalo from chin to tail to remove the meat on the front. It is heavy, messy work, and neither of us has ever quartered a buffalo before. Lost Woman and Hanabi have two cows skinned and packed in the same time it takes us to do one, but we are both breathless and proud—and covered in blood—when we return to camp.
We slice the meat into thin strips and hang it up to dry. Hanabi says tomorrow we will pound it with rocks and let it dry some more. The hides will take days to treat, but for now, those will wait. We are hungry, and preparations for the feast begin.
Fires dot the growing darkness as the buffalo is fried over the flames in strips and steaks. Lost Woman is turning a roast as big as my head on an iron spit, and the smell hangs in the air, even at the creek, where John and I retreat to wash, scrubbing our clothes before we pull them off and wash ourselves. We keep our backs to each other, shivering in the cold water, before stepping onto the banks and pulling on the homespun clothes John managed to acquire at the Gathering.
John has not come down from the hunt. His smile is easy and his countenance is light, and when he twines his hand in my wet hair to keep it off my dry blouse, his eyes are soft on my face. I breathe in his joy, letting it sit in my lungs and warm my limbs, my lips parted, my hands curled at my sides. His eyes are full of asking, and I step closer, chasing his mouth. He groans and sinks in, wrapping an arm around my waist, leaving the other buried in my hair. He is careful and the kiss is quiet, though my heart is loud and my soul is needy.
I taste him, just a touch of my tongue to his top lip, and he stills, letting me find my way, letting me tell the story of a woman coming home again. He welcomes me there, opening his mouth and letting me linger by the door.
I slide my hands along the rough of his jaw, holding him to me while I tiptoe through the room we shared, back when I was unafraid. I want to lie on the bed and watch him sleep; I want to touch him like I did before. But I hesitate too long, my mouth on his, lost in the memory of then, and he thinks I’ve fled.
His body is thrumming, his breath hot, but he steps back, softly closing the door behind me, letting me go. He takes my hand, and without a word, we walk back toward the wickiups.