Where the Lost Wander

by Harmon, Amy

  The wind blows like nothing I’ve ever seen or heard. We circle the wagons, stake the wheels, and put the animals inside so they don’t scatter in the gale, and the circle seems to give the wagons a bit of protection, but I expect to be swept up at any moment. The boys are beneath the wagon, and Mama, Wolfie, and I are inside. I can’t hear Ma moaning in her sleep when the wind howls like this, and for that I’m grateful. She isn’t doing well. She talks in her sleep, and she’s pale and weak. I am worried she will get the dreaded cholera, but she just smiles and tells me not to worry.

  “I never get sick; you know that, Naomi,” she says. And I realize I have learned all my bravado from her.

  Ma moans and baby Wolfe wails, and it is hours before the winds calm and they settle, but I don’t sleep. Just before dawn, I pull on my boots and climb from the wagon. I can’t wait a moment longer to relieve myself, wind or no wind, and I don’t want to wake Ma to come with me. The stillness is eerie, the camp deep in relieved slumber, and I listen for the rattle of Pa’s snore, a sound to orient me in the dark. I don’t go as far as I’d like, but habit and the need for privacy force me farther than is probably prudent. I bunch my skirts and sling them over my shoulder, crouching so I won’t wet my shoes or my drawers, and empty my bladder into the prairie dirt.

  The wind has blown away the clouds, revealing inky darkness prickled with stars, and I don’t want to return to the wagon. I’m tired, and the weariness will find my limbs and weight my lids when the day drags on, but the solitude invigorates me. I loosen my hair and comb it with my fingers before rebraiding it and washing in the water Pa brought up from the river last night. I try not to think about the wide brown expanse of the Platte. The spring rains have flooded the banks, pulling debris into the current. The water tastes terrible, but boiled and flavored with coffee, it’s bearable. Abbott says to sprinkle oats in a bucket of water and let them sink to the bottom, taking the silt with them. It works, but it wastes too. I comfort myself with the knowledge that it doesn’t seem to be the dirt that makes us sick.

  I get a fire started and make some coffee, hoping it won’t encourage anyone out of sleep too soon. I’m not ready for the day or the sun or the company, and as I sit with my cup in silence, I breathe slowly, willing time to follow my rhythm. With the animals inside the circle, I have built the fire beyond the perimeter of the wagon train, far enough to avoid a disturbance and close enough to welcome my family when they rise.

  A soft tread lifts my chin and scatters my morose thoughts, and John Lowry, his sleeves rolled and his clipped hair dripping, separates from the darkness that stretches toward the Platte. My fire makes him look like a mirage, and I stand, awkward, like I’ve been waiting for him. Maybe I have. Maybe I’ve summoned him with my desperate thoughts. It’s been only a week since he kissed me, since I asked him to kiss me again, to kiss me better, but it feels like it’s been a thousand years.

  “Would you like coffee?” I ask and immediately wish I hadn’t given him any choice. I don’t wait for his answer but rush to refill my cup and hand it to him while I search for another.

  “Sit. I’m harmless,” I insist.

  He bites his lip like he wants to disagree, but he sinks to his haunches obediently, cradling the tin cup between his big palms. I want to set the cup aside and crawl into his arms. Abigail’s death and Wolfe’s birth have turned me into a hollow-eyed ghoul; I’ve been putting one foot in front of the other, all my strength dedicated to keeping my family from falling into the hole of despair sucking at our plodding feet. I’ve had no time for thoughts of John, but my heart has kept the fire burning, and I want to beg him not to leave the train.

  “You’re up before you need to be,” he says, his tone hushed, saving me from blurting out in anguished pleading.

  “You are too,” I reply, but my voice sounds like I’m being strangled.

  “The wind forced me beneath Abbott’s wagon, and Abbott forced me back out again. He was louder than the gale.”

  At that moment, Pa’s snore reaches a crescendo, and baby Wolfie wails, the sound tired and cantankerous. We both laugh, but the ache in my throat intensifies.

  “We move on tomorrow. What’s next for you, Mr. Lowry?”

  “Abbott wants me to remain with the train. He’s offered me a job.”

  I nod, trying not to reveal my pounding heart.

  “Are you going to take it?” I whisper.

  He sips his coffee and studies the fire as though he’s not made up his mind. Light and shadows writhe on the bridge of his nose, the swell of his cheek, and the jut of his chin.

  “Yes. And I’m going to run half my mules to Fort Bridger. I’m going to keep Kettle and Dame . . . maybe start my own breeding farm in California.” He says the words with a finality that makes me believe the decision has just settled on him with a sudden, considerable weight. My heart skips, and my next question sounds a little breathless.

  “Where’s Fort Bridger?”

  “About a thousand miles . . . that way.” He points downstream, his arm parallel to the Platte.

  “Why mules?” I press, trying to keep him with me a moment more.

  “It’s what I know. They’re strong. And smart. And stubborn. The best parts of a horse and a donkey rolled into one.”

  “Horses are prettier. Better to draw too.”

  “Horses are like big dogs. Men and dogs belong together. Men and horses too. But mules . . . they just put up with us. They aren’t eager to please.”

  “And you like that?”

  “I understand it.”

  “Do you have a girl, Mr. Lowry?” I blurt out. I am not eager to please, but I am eager. I don’t know what it is about him, but he makes me want to stake my claim on him, hard and fast. My boldness is not new, but my interest is. Widow or not, I have not felt like this before.

  “Are you looking for another husband, Mrs. Caldwell?” John Lowry counters around the rim of his coffee cup.

  “I wasn’t. But then I met you.” I meet his gaze, steady. No games. No giggles. “But I think you’re probably like the mules, Mr. Lowry, and I’m going to have to work for your attention.”

  Surprise leaps among the light and shadow. His eyes cling to mine for a startled second, and he makes a sound like a laugh—just a puff of breath—but it doesn’t turn up his lips or wrinkle his eyes.

  “You’ve got my attention, Mrs. Caldwell. But I’m not sure that’s what you really want.” He sets his coffee down and begins to rise.

  “I know my own mind, Mr. Lowry. I always have. My own heart too.”

  “But you don’t know the terrain.”

  “I’m counting on you to guide me through it, John, all the way to California.”

  “I’ve never been,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how to do this . . . any of it.”

  “So we go steady and slow,” I say.

  “Like ícas.”

  It takes me a minute to remember the word and realize what he’s said.

  Like the turtle.

  I stand as well, my weariness forgotten, my eyes searching his.

  “Yes. Just like that,” I say.

  5

  THE PLATTE

  JOHN

  I herd all my mules and my two jacks into the rear paddock behind the fort and leave Dame in the care of a Pawnee boy in an army cap, a faded uniform, and a pair of moccasins that makes me think he’s not an official recruit.

  When I thank him in his native language, telling him I am there to see Captain Dempsey, he rattles off a stream of Pawnee, commenting on the quality of the mules and the size of the jack and asking if he can help me when I’m working with the mares. I am recognized from years past, it seems. When I tell him I won’t be at Fort Kearny long, his shoulders sink, but he points me toward the main building of the fort and Captain Dempsey’s quarters and tells me he’ll keep an eye on the animals until I return.

  Inside, I am greeted suspiciously by a Corporal Perkins, whose fastidious mustache, slicked-down hair, and ironed tunic and t
rousers make me feel every dusty mile between St. Joseph and the Platte. When I tell him the purpose of my visit, he nods, instructs me to wait, and raps on Captain Dempsey’s office door. After a few muted words, I hear a squeaking of floorboards and steady footfalls. Captain Dempsey appears in the doorway, his smile wide behind a graying beard. His black belt is cinched beneath a rounded belly swathed in army blue and bisected by gold buttons. He’s a big man, hearty, and I like him.

  “John Lowry. You’re here. I want to see those animals. Do you mind if we take a look right now? Pleasantries later?”

  I nod. Pleasantries be damned. I’ve never especially liked tea. It makes me feel clumsy and constricted. I would rather eat and eat heartily than sip from a little cup and wonder how many cookies is polite. And I would rather be done with the conversation ahead. I am not going to hold up my end of the bargain, and I am nervous but resolute. The captain asks me about the trail and travel from St. Joe as we retrace the path from the corrals I took only moments before.

  “Charlie’s been excited for you to arrive. He’s been watching every emigrant train, searching for you and your mules.”

  “Charlie?”

  Captain Dempsey points across the corral at the Pawnee boy, who has already unsaddled Dame and is brushing her down. Dame stands perfectly still, her eyes closed, her head bowed like she is afraid any movement will make him stop. Pott is sniffing at the boy’s shoulder, and Charlie reaches out and pats his nose, spreading the love around.

  “Damnation, that is a fine animal.” Captain Dempsey whistles. “The biggest jack I’ve ever seen. I guess that makes your job easier, eh, Lowry?”

  I nod. “He’s the finest. But I’m willing to sell him.” The jacks themselves have never been part of any contract we’ve ever had, and the captain’s eyebrows disappear beneath the wide brim of his gray hat.

  “The contract is for ten Lowry mules,” Dempsey stammers. “But what did you have in mind?”

  “I’ll give you five mules and that jack . . . the darker one.”

  “The jack? Why?” His eyes narrow, and he strokes his beard, considering me. A quality jack donkey with the proven record and size of Pott and Kettle could be sold for more than three thousand dollars. I’d heard of one selling for five.

  “I’ve decided to continue on with the wagon train to California, and I need the other mules. Take the jack. It’s a good deal.”

  The captain circles Pott, who scampers toward Kettle, perhaps sensing a parting.

  “It’s a good deal if you know a thing about mule breeding, which I don’t. I’m a cavalry man, Lowry. The army needs good Missouri mules, not donkeys.” He is bartering already, I can hear it in his voice, and I curse myself for starting the bidding with my final offer. Captain Dempsey knows horseflesh and livestock. I have no doubt he knows the value of the jack, but I am the one who is altering the agreement. I say nothing, letting my offer stand.

  He scratches his beard like he’s considering something deep, and I brace myself for a proposal I can’t accept. “I tell you what. Maybe you can make up the difference some other way. A band of Sioux attacked the Pawnee village last night. Burned lodges. Stole horses. And now we’re caught in the middle of an Indian war.”

  Charlie has gone still, the brush motionless against Dame’s flanks. She chuffs and butts him softly, and Charlie resumes his ministrations slowly, but he is listening to our conversation.

  “The army has offered incentives to the elders if they will move north of the Platte—just abandon the village altogether—but they don’t want to go,” the captain continues.

  “Moving north of the river will put them farther into Sioux territory,” I say.

  “Yeah. But the fort won’t be caught between them.”

  “I don’t want any part of that.”

  Captain Dempsey sighs wearily and nods but scrunches his face like he’s trying to remember something.

  “I believe our contract says that the army has purchased ten Lowry mules and stud services to be supplied to Fort Kearny no later than June fifteenth, 1853. I have it on my desk.”

  “Ordered. Not purchased. You fulfill payment upon delivery. You are aware of those terms, Captain,” I say. It isn’t the first time the captain has done business with my father, but I know where he’s going.

  He sighs again. “I can agree to the five mules and that jack. But I’m not getting the Lowry stud service outlined in the contract. You have some language skills I need, and it will only take you an afternoon. An afternoon, John. You’ll be ready to ride out with the emigrant train tomorrow, as planned. Consider it good business. I just need you to be my representative.”

  I have kept my heritage to myself, but the captain knows my father, and he’s well informed. I’m sure he knows the habits and aptitudes of the men in his command as well as their stories and situations. He knows mine, though we’ve never discussed it. Considering I was supposed to spend a week coaxing my jacks to cover every mare in estrus in Fort Kearny’s paddocks, his demand for one afternoon in his service is not unreasonable, and I nod slowly, agreeing to his terms.

  “I won’t be anyone’s representative. I will relay your words. I will listen. And I will tell you what is said.”

  “I’ll send a load of flour and corn behind you. Charlie here will show you the way. Remind them there will be more if they go north.”

  “Will there be?”

  Captain Dempsey sighs, but he nods. “There will as long as I’m in charge.”

  Without being told, Charlie heaves Dame’s saddle back in place, tightening the cinch and patting her nose. He looks at me expectantly, and I step forward to take the reins.

  “You can leave the rest of your animals here,” Dempsey says. “We’ll keep an eye on them. Report back, Lowry. Tonight. I’ll send the wagon with the corn and flour within the hour.”

  Charlie opens the gate to let me out, and after swinging it closed and dropping the bolt back in place, he starts to run, obviously expecting me to follow. I do, digging my heels into Dame’s sides and trailing after the fleet-footed boy in surprise. I call after him, asking him in Pawnee if he is going to run all the way. He laughs, picking up speed, and for a while I simply keep pace beside him, letting Dame canter.

  “Do you run to the fort every day?” I ask.

  He nods, his eyes ahead, his stride long and easy. He continues this way for a couple of miles, the river to our right, an endless rolling prairie to our left. He takes me across the tufted swales, up one low rise and down another, until I can’t stand it any longer and pull up short. Charlie slows to a stop too, his hands on his hips, his gaze quizzical.

  “Your turn,” I say. He is hardly winded, but his eyes widen at my command.

  “Oh, no. No, Mr. Lowry.” He shakes his head, adamant. “We don’t have much farther to go.”

  “Good. You ride. I will run.”

  “You will run?” he squeaks. His teeth flash in his brown face, and I grin back.

  “I used to run just like you, all the way back to my mother’s village. You think I can’t?”

  “You are wearing boots. You will be slow.”

  I slide off Dame and hand him the reins, but he is still reluctant.

  “This way, your village will know that I am a friend,” I insist.

  He doesn’t look convinced, but his desire to ride my horse is too great, and he scrambles up on her back. He flaps his legs and yips like he has spotted a buffalo herd. Dame bolts, and Charlie whoops, leaving me behind without a backward glance. I break into a dead run that isn’t nearly as easy or fast as the one I relieved him from. It has been a while since I used my own two legs to travel any sort of distance, and my limbs protest, stiff from days in the saddle and nights stretched out on the hard ground. I pray Dame doesn’t step in a hole and break her leg. The homes of the prairie dogs dot the expanse, and I keep my eyes on the ground so I don’t step in one myself. I continue to cover the ground as fast as I dare, trusting that Charlie will return, hoping the villag
e is not as far as I fear.

  Minutes later, Charlie comes back, still kicking up dust. He circles me in celebration, his arms raised, his face wreathed in triumph. He is a fine horseman for a man with no horse. He points at a suggestion of lodges in the distance, and for the final stretch, he trots along beside me, enjoying his ride.

  I expect flurry and interest when we enter the village, but no one seems to notice we’ve arrived. A sheep bleats, and a few children chase it, stopping briefly to stare at me before resuming their game. The village feels empty, occupied only by the dogs, the sheep, and the handful of children. The corrals are empty too, not a single Indian pony anywhere, and I wonder if Charlie runs every day because there is literally nothing for him to ride. Several brush huts are burned to the ground, the blackened grass around them the only indication of where they stood. The earthen lodges have fared better, and they circle a big center lodge, where I know the men gather, talk, and pass the pipe. It is something I’ve never done.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask Charlie.

  “Many are still at the fort. The warriors are gone. They’ve gone to fight the Sioux and recover our horses and cattle.” His voice is glum, like he doesn’t believe it will happen. Or maybe he fears they won’t return.

  “Then why am I here?” I mutter. “Who will I talk to?”

  “The brothers are here. You can talk to them,” Charlie reassures me.

  “The brothers?”

  “They do not run anymore. They don’t even ride. They sleep, and they eat, and they pass the pipe. When the Sioux came, they did not even leave their lodge. They say they are ready to die. But for some reason they never do.” He shrugs.

  “How many brothers?”

  “Three. They are the oldest men in our village—maybe the oldest of all the Pawnee. So old they have outlived their sons and their daughters. My uncle, Chief Dog Tooth, is the grandson of one of the brothers.”