Where the Lost Wander

by Harmon, Amy

  “Is he a good chief?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie says slowly. “What is a good chief?”

  I’m not sure I know the answer either and remain silent, following Charlie toward the big lodge. He ducks through the door, telling me to wait, and I can hear the murmur of voices, though I can’t make out the conversation. After a moment, two women scurry out, their eyes darting from me to the ground, and I am ushered inside. It is dark inside and warm, and though it is only midday, a fire burns, the smoke rising up toward the hole above the center pit.

  The three old men sit beside it in their buffalo robes, sleepily peering at the coals. They don’t have shaved pates or bristled forelocks in the old Pawnee way. Their hair is long and white, their hoary heads almost identical—their faces too—and I can see why they are simply called the brothers, with no distinction between them.

  I sink down across from them, waiting silently for them to acknowledge me. Charlie sits beside me, his thin legs folded, his hands loose at his sides, but I am not fooled. This is a first for him too. After an interminable silence, I state my purpose, eager to be gone.

  “Captain Dempsey wants you to move north of the Platte.” There. I have done my duty.

  The old men mutter, puffing away with bowed backs and bent heads. I don’t think they have heard me. I don’t really care. I begin to rise, but the brothers lift their heads in affront.

  “And how long before they ask us to move again? Does Dempsey speak for all the whites? Does he speak for the Sioux or the Cheyenne?” one asks, his trembling Pawnee words pricking my conscience.

  “Kâkî’,” I answer. No.

  “Do you think we should move? Did your people move?” the same brother asks.

  I think of my mother’s village. Missouri is no longer the land of Pawnee. I’m not sure it ever was, though my Pawnee grandmother told me the Pawnee nation spread from sea to sea when her great-grandfather hunted the buffalo. I don’t know if that is true or if it was simply the wistful myth of a dying people. But Missouri is no longer the home of the Shawnee or the Potawatomi either. It belongs to others now and is dotted with homes made of brick and stone. The Pawnee don’t migrate like the Sioux. The Pawnee grow corn and build lodges from the earth.

  “There are not many Pawnee in Missouri,” I say.

  “Soon there will not be many Pawnee anywhere,” another brother replies. “Dempsey wants us to leave so he does not have to deal with us. We are a nuisance to him. But if we move, we will never stop moving, and we were here first.”

  I have no doubt that what he says is true, and I have no response.

  “Who are your people?” the last brother asks me.

  It is a question I have never been able to answer, and it is the question everyone eventually asks. “My father is a Lowry. My mother was Pawnee. I am . . . both. Pítku ásu’.” I shrug, turning my palms up.

  “Pítku ásu’,” the brothers murmur, nodding their heads as if it makes complete sense, and they fall silent again. I think they have fallen asleep, and Charlie wriggles beside me.

  “What should I tell Captain Dempsey?” I ask. “I will tell him whatever you wish me to say.”

  They all begin speaking at once, mumbling over the top of one another, and I don’t know who says what.

  “Tell him the Kanzas are below us. The Sioux above. Cheyenne too.”

  “They steal from us. We steal from them. We understand each other. But we don’t understand the whites.”

  “They trample on the sacred burial grounds of our ancestors. The wagons go through—we see the tracks of their wheels.”

  “One man makes a promise, we sign a treaty, and another man breaks it.”

  Their anger is palpable, and they glower at me as if I am to blame. I am grateful I am speaking to old men. I suspect Dog Tooth and his war chiefs would run me out. Or run me through.

  “You tell him we will stay right here,” a brother says.

  “Let him fight the Sioux with his cannon. We do not want to fight them,” another adds.

  “I will tell him,” I say, but I know it will do no good. Someone will visit the village again, asking the brothers to go, and they won’t take no for an answer. I tell them that a wagonload of corn and flour will arrive in their village, a gift from Captain Dempsey, but this time when I rise, they don’t look up at me, and Charlie follows me out. When I step from the big lodge, my eyes adjusting to the light, I see that the village has repopulated itself as though the old men and the smoke from their fire have called their people home. The corn has been delivered from Fort Kearny, the flour too, and the women are unloading it; they glance up at me in suspicion and pause in their work.

  In Pawnee, I ask them what else they need. Their eyes widen with surprise, the typical response when I speak the language. But they scoff.

  “Are you going to get it for us, half man?” one woman says.

  Half man. It is a new twist on the more common half breed. I was run out of my mother’s village enough to know that I am no more welcome among the Indians than I am among people like Lawrence Caldwell. It was a stupid thing to say. I do not have the power to grant them anything or give them what they need.

  Charlie tugs on my arm. “Can you find your way back to the fort, Mr. Lowry? Or would you like me to run with you?”

  “I can get back, Charlie.”

  He claps my shoulder, his eyes sober. “Thank you for letting me ride your horse. It was a good day. I hope I will see you again.”

  I nod. “I would like that.”

  “And I hope you find your way,” Charlie adds.

  It is not until the village is behind me, the prairie and the Platte stretched before me, that I wonder if perhaps Charlie wasn’t talking about returning to the fort.

  I report back to Captain Dempsey, who doesn’t seem surprised by the response but sighs and makes a notation in his ledger, like he is keeping a record of his attempts at peaceful removal. Then I write a letter to my father and another to Jennie and post them with a trapper who says he’ll take them to St. Joe. I don’t know why I write two—I assume they will share them—but with my father I can never be sure, and I do not speak to them in the same way. To my father I report the condition of the mules and Captain Dempsey’s reaction to their quality, size, and overall demeanor. I also tell him Captain Dempsey says good, amenable breeding jacks are in great demand and that I will be able to sell stud services at every fort and trading post from here to California. Pott and Kettle are mine, though the contract for the mules was my father’s. I don’t tell him the particulars of the deal, only that the full contract payment will be made to his account in St. Joe. Then I tell him I’m not coming home.

  I do not tell him about Naomi May or the pictures she draws. To speak of her would be to admit that she is the reason I cannot make myself return, and so I simply tell him I will send word at Fort Laramie, at Fort Bridger, and again when I arrive at my journey’s end. I reassure him that I have plenty of money; I never travel far without it. It is the fear of being caught unprepared, at the mercy of fate and a friendless world. It is the fear of finding myself completely alone. At the bottom of the letter, I sign my name.

  To Jennie I report on Abbott’s well-being and his desire to keep me on the train all the way to California. I tell her the government is giving away land in Oregon. They’re giving it away to lure emigrants across the country to settle it—320 acres to a single man, 640 acres if he’s married. I’m not sure they’ll give it to an Indian; maybe they’ll only give me half. Maybe I’ll go to Oregon.

  I don’t know if Jennie or my father will be fooled by my talk of land. It’s never been land that interests me, or farming, or even space, though I think I’d like it well enough. They know I am happiest with a handful of mules, a dozen good mares, and a few jack donkeys that don’t turn their noses up at a horse’s hindquarters. Breeding mules is what I know, and I’ve always felt a sort of kinship with the beasts. They can’t reproduce; a mule will never pass down a
pedigree. No posterity, no bloodlines, one of a kind, every time. Created by a mother and a father that don’t belong together, mules are bred for strength and labor, and that is all. I don’t need to belong, despite what my father thinks. I’d take a mule over a man any day.

  I don’t tell Jennie about the deaths or the hard days either. I do not mention the cholera or the color of Naomi’s eyes. I don’t tell her about the Pawnee camp and the hardship there. I do not tell her how hopeless it made me feel. I simply tell her I am well, and I end my letter with the last thing she said to me, that love is the only thing worth the suffering, and if I know Jennie, she’ll read between the lines. She’ll know I’ve met someone that I can’t part with.

  I do not know if I love Naomi . . . not yet. It seems to me people make the admission too lightly and tumble head over feet down the hills to chase it. I am not ready for that, but I am falling. She is like a speck in the distance—something so far away and unknown that I can’t quit staring, trying to identify what I’m seeing.

  I’d take a mule over a man any day . . . but Naomi May is another proposition altogether.

  NAOMI

  “We need to cross over to the north side of the Platte,” Mr. Abbott informs us as the day begins. “Captain Dempsey says there’s less sickness on the other side, although word is it’s bad all the way to Fort Laramie. Worst they’ve ever seen. We’re going to have to cross eventually. I say we do it now.”

  The Platte is a mile wide, if not more, and on an average day, it isn’t more than hip high at the deepest parts. But it lures you in with all its shallow innocence. Mr. Abbott says he’s seen men and mules wade out across and suddenly be slammed by a rush of water barreling toward them from rains and runoff from mountains a thousand miles away. He says sometimes you can see the water a few minutes before it swells, but even then, the river is so wide that once you’re out in it, you can’t get out of the way. And the bottom is quicksand. If you stop or your animals balk, the wheels of the wagons promptly sink to the axles. Mr. Abbott says the Platte swallows oxen whole. It is grueling to cross no matter where or when you attempt it, but most of us think Abbott is right. It must be crossed eventually, and when Captain Dempsey says the cholera is worse on the south side, it’s reason enough to ford it now.

  Though there is a great deal of grumbling, discontent, and genuine fear about crossing a river so wide, when Mr. Abbott makes the decision, the company rushes to prepare their wagons. The company has been carved down to forty wagons and fifty fewer people by death and desertion. The Hastingses, with their big wagon and their funny horse-drawn carriage, have not abandoned the trail, despite Mr. Abbott’s prediction. They’ve complained bitterly, along with a few other families (including the Caldwells, who have fared better than most), but they have not turned back. Mr. Caldwell got wind that John is continuing on with the train. He’s been whispering in Pa’s ear and stirring up trouble, and he’s already pulled me aside to warn me about being “dragged off by the half breed.” I told him John doesn’t want to drag me off, but if he did, I’d go willingly. It wasn’t the wisest thing to say, I suppose, but I am too weary to abide him or his opinions.

  We cross about ten miles west of Fort Kearny, where the river is narrowest and the sandbars sit like miniature islands in the coffee-colored sludge. I overhear John telling Webb that the Platte is worse than the Missouri because it must be forded and not swum, and each step threatens to suck you under.

  John doesn’t waste any time and puts Webb and Will on Trick and Tumble, attaching their leads to Dame and his string of mules. He leads them the way he did on the Missouri, showing them what he expects before he returns to the banks to coax them into the water.

  “Keep going, boys. Hang tight, and don’t panic,” he says, and Webb and Will obey, murmuring softly, “Go, mules, go,” as Trick and Tumble rush through the waters, the silty bottom sucking at their hooves.

  “Attaboy, Trick,” Webb encourages, like it’s all just a grand adventure. Will is a little more cautious, but Tumble trots through the water behind John and Dame, and they make it across without mishap, then wait for us on the far side.

  We raise the beds of the wagons as high as they will go and tie down all the supplies as best we can. Little Wolfe is swaddled and secured in his basket, tied down amid the sundry supplies. It is the safest place for him, but Ma sits beside him, clinging to his basket with stark fear stamped all over her face. Pa drives one team, walking alongside the oxen with his Moses stick; Warren is still too weak to walk through a mile of turbulent water beside the oxen, so Wyatt drives the other. I climb up on the front seat, and Warren lies in back, promising to keep the supplies from tumbling out. Pa hems and haws, and Ma’s lips have gone white with terror. She prays loudly for the waters to be calm and the wagons to have wings.

  With a crack of the whip and a “Giddyap,” we lurch forward into the Platte, the water lapping at the sides of the wagons, the oxen groaning, and the far shore so distant it’s like a mirage. Suddenly John is back, splashing toward us, shouting directions and then circling around, bringing up the rear. We are more than halfway across, gaining confidence with every rod, when Pa’s wagon begins to list to the side and Ma begins to holler. The supplies bump and slide as wheels sink deep. The water sloshes into the wagon bed, and Ma’s prayers become a scolding.

  “Keep those oxen moving, William,” John yells to Pa, threading his rope through the front wheel and wrapping it around his saddle horn. He spurs Dame, and the wagon jolts forward with a sudden sucking sound. The oxen bellow, stumbling as the weight of the wagon surges against the yoke.

  Just as quickly as Pa is freed, Wyatt begins to panic, pulling back on the team instead of pushing the pace. I don’t think twice but swing down from the box into the river to help Wyatt. The water isn’t deep, but it pulls at my skirts, and I wade ahead, determined to keep the wagon from getting stuck. I trip and go under, but only briefly, before I get my hands around the tug on the harness of the lead ox and pull as hard as I can. Everyone’s yelling as I’m yanking, but the wagon rights itself, and the team surges forward, crisis averted.

  John leans down and, with a grunt and a hiss, hauls me up into the saddle in front of him, my skirts streaming and threatening to pull me right back down into the water.

  “Please don’t do that again, Mrs. Caldwell,” he barks, his mouth at my ear, and I wipe the muddy tendrils of hair from my cheeks, inordinately pleased with myself. I am wet, filthy, and so close to John Lowry I can feel his heartbeat thudding against my back. Crossing the Platte is not as bad as I anticipated.

  6

  ELM CREEK

  JOHN

  It takes an hour to cross a single wagon, two to cross another, and by the time the entire train is assembled on the north side of the Platte, some with supplies that have been ruined by the water or lost in the finicky flow, there is little will to continue on. We stagger a few miles to finish the day and set up camp at a place called Elm Creek, about eight miles west of where we crossed.

  That night we suffer a storm the likes of which I’ve never seen. The wagon wheels are staked and the animals corralled, but every tent is blown over, and the Hastingses’ buggy topples end over end, having survived the Platte only to be dashed to pieces by the storm. It is not the weight of the rain but the strength of the gale that accompanies it, and we spend the next day drying out at Elm Creek, though we desperately need to make up for lost time. And I am ill.

  I say nothing to anyone, hiding my misery as I see to my animals, but I am in trouble, and I am scared. I tell myself it is simply the chill from the hours I spent moving wagons across the Platte and the storm that deprived me of rest and a chance to get dry, but by midnight my bones ache and my bowels are on fire, and I fall into my damp blankets after my watch, praying that Webb will stay away, wishing I’d seen my sisters like Jennie wanted me to, wishing I’d told my father goodbye when he’d stood on the banks of the Missouri and watched me go.

  There is little privacy bu
t distance, and I lurch from my tent to relieve myself beyond earshot of the wagons and the eyes of the second watch. I dare not go back to my tent only to have to rise again to empty my bowels. I don’t have the strength to do anything but huddle in a swampy ravine, disgusted by my own filth and unable to do anything about it. I’ve put a bit of peppermint and laudanum into my canteen—I consider pouring it out, not certain if the water I carry is the water that made me sick, but then consider that no water might be worse in my condition than tainted water. The peppermint eases the cramping, and the laudanum muffles the clanging in my head, though it feels like I am drifting away. The ache in my throat and the screaming in my limbs let me know I am still alive.

  More than pain, I am riddled with deep regret. I have not told Naomi May how I feel about her. I have not told her that I want to watch her grow old. I have not told her so many things. And I desperately want to.

  It is that desire, even amid the agony, that has me dousing myself in the creek to clean the waste from my limbs and my clothes and staggering back to my tent so that no one will spend time looking for me when morning breaks.

  If I had known I was going to die, I would have urged the Mays to go back. The journey is only going to get worse, and they need me. I would have given Kettle to Webb and Dame to Naomi. When her face looms above my own, I am sure I am dreaming.

  “Mr. Lowry. John?”

  Oh God, she is in my tent.

  “Go away, Naomi.”

  I like her name on my lips and grit my teeth against another surge of fear. I want to say her name tomorrow and the day after that, but I know I’m going to die.

  “John, you’re sick. I’m here to help you.”

  “I don’t want you here.” I want my dignity, and there is none in the sickness that sweeps through the emigrant trains. Loose bowels and heaving sides—no one can keep the medicine down, though the medicine simply gives the fretting something to do. I’m not sure it helps all that much.

  “I’m going to help you sit up,” she says. “You need medicine. It’ll make you feel better. I mixed it myself.”