Where the Lost Wander

by Harmon, Amy

  When they ride away, Wyatt is tall and wiry in the saddle, his slim shoulders set with purpose, but John is hunched like he’s lived a hundred years, and I want to run after them, begging them to come back. I remain standing with my back to the wagons, watching my brother and John Lowry sink into the prairie, lost from my eyes. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt more discouraged, and the weight of hopelessness has left me brittle. A statue made of sticks, a shelter made of straw. It is Ma who finally approaches me, Wolfe in her arms. She stops at my side, but she does not touch me; she must know it would be my undoing.

  One by one, the wagons begin to pull out, Mr. Abbott leading the way. I am so angry with him that for a moment I entertain thoughts of vengeance; I consider turning his animals loose, walking among them with my pots and pans and howling like the Omaha Indians on the banks of the Missouri when they thought all was lost.

  “If they were Mr. Abbott’s animals, you can be damn sure we wouldn’t be pulling out,” I tell Ma. She doesn’t protest my language, but she does defend him.

  “Don’t judge him too harshly, Naomi. Someone has to make the hard decisions. That’s what we’ve all hired him to do.”

  “And what about Mr. Caldwell? How should I judge him, Ma? If I had a dollar to my name, I’d bet he’s the one that spooked John’s mules.”

  “Lawrence Caldwell will reap whatever he has sown,” Ma says, her voice mild, but her eyes are bleak and hard. She closes them briefly, takes a deep breath, and then looks at me.

  “They’ll be all right, Naomi.” But I can see her mind isn’t right either. She’s aged ten years in the last month, or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I am the old one.

  A torrent rises inside me, and if I speak, the clouds will break, so I nod, pretending I believe her. Pa beckons to us, and we turn back to the wagons and the west, the last to leave Elm Creek.

  7

  THE NORTH SIDE

  JOHN

  “Which way should we go?” Wyatt asks.

  The prairie undulates, and I am not certain what is reality and what is mirage. My thoughts are muddy, my reason impaired, and I know only that if I cannot retrieve my animals, I am done for. I tie myself to Tumble’s saddle horn, looping the rope around my waist to give me a little support. I don’t think it’ll hold me if I topple, and I might very well bring the mule down on top of me if I do, but I won’t stay in the saddle without it.

  “Wouldn’t they come back toward the water? Even if they were crazed enough to run for miles, they would come back toward the water, don’t you think?” Wyatt asks.

  I nod in agreement. “The train’s going west, so we’ll go east, back the way we came.” I just hope that if my mules have gone the way of the train and someone spots them, they will go after them.

  “Will and Warren and Webb are all on the lookout. Naomi too. You know that they’ll be searching, Mr. Lowry,” Wyatt says, answering my worried thoughts.

  I trust they will, but I don’t trust Lawrence Caldwell. I have no doubt he pulled the pins and scattered my animals. Someone did. It wasn’t random, and no one else in the train was missing a single cow. Caldwell loosed them and then drove them out with a slap and a whistle, maybe rattling something or making his whip writhe in the grass to make them bolt. Whatever he did, they’re gone. Rustling among travelers in the same train isn’t much of a problem because there is nowhere to hide the stolen livestock. But there is no surer way to doom a man than to scatter his animals.

  Every so often I whistle, a shrill gull-like shriek that dissipates in the guileless skies, but the action exhausts me, and I abandon even that. All my strength is centered on staying in the saddle. I trust Wyatt to scan the swales and search the banks, and I close my eyes against the pulsing expanse.

  I hold on for an hour, then another, clinging to my saddle as we reach the place where we crossed the Platte two days before. The Pawnee village is across the river, the fort too, though it is a good ten miles farther east. There are no trains crossing today. The silence is a sharp contrast to the bellows and brays of our passage, the shrieks and squeals of wheels and women. I scooped Naomi up from the water and into my saddle with no difficulty at all. Now I can barely lift my own head. I consider fording the river again, returning to Fort Kearny and sending Wyatt back to his family with Trick and Tumble. I have no doubt I can find work there; Captain Dempsey will be glad to have my mule-breeding expertise for a week or two. I’ll make enough to get a horse to make the journey back to St. Joe.

  “There’s the Hastingses’ dining room table,” Wyatt says, pointing. “You’d think they woulda put it to use.” I know what he means. Coffins have been constructed from sideboards and wagon beds, from crates and boxes and anything else people had. The Hastingses’ table could have provided proper burial for three grown men, including the hired man who died of cholera driving their wagon.

  The Hastingses hauled the damn thing across the Platte in their huge Conestoga, only to decide they weren’t hauling it a step farther. Their hired man—the one still living—shoved it out onto the prairie, bidding it good riddance as he tossed out six tufted chairs to keep it company. Someone thought it amusing to set the table upright and tuck the chairs in around it. Buzzards circle overhead as though waiting for dinner to be served. It is the only good shade for miles, and buzzards or not, I can’t continue.

  “I gotta stop, Wyatt. Just for a bit,” I whisper, but he hears me and has slid from his saddle before I can untie the rope around my waist. I am much bigger than the boy, and he teeters beneath my weight but manages to half drag, half carry me to the abandoned table, pulling out a chair so I can climb beneath it. He shoves something beneath my head, lays my rifle beside me, and forces some water down my throat. I am asleep before I can thank him.

  I dream of Charlie and the Pawnee village, of Kettle being bred to Indian ponies and throwing foals with human faces.

  “What are you going to do, half man?” an Indian woman asks in my mother’s voice.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know. She pats my cheeks, her hands insistent.

  “Pítku ásu’.” Two Feet. Put one foot in front of the other, Two Feet.

  “Mr. Lowry. Mr. Lowry, wake up.” Wyatt is trying to rouse me. Memory floods back, and the Indian woman is gone, along with my mother’s voice.

  “Cͮikstit karasku?” Wyatt asks. Are you well? I peer up at him, disoriented and dry mouthed. Wyatt doesn’t speak Pawnee.

  “What?” I moan.

  “What happened to you, Mr. Lowry? Why are you here?”

  It isn’t Wyatt. It’s Charlie. They are Charlie’s hands, and it is Charlie’s voice. I reach for my canteen, not sure if it’s real, not certain Charlie is real, or if I am still caught in the dream space. Charlie helps me drink, holding my head the way Wyatt did, and the warm slosh of liquid down my throat convinces me I’m awake.

  “Where is Wyatt?” I croak. I do not ask in Pawnee, but Charlie seems to understand.

  “There is no one here but me and you, Mr. Lowry. Me, you, Dame, and your jack.”

  Relief washes through me, and I peer beyond him. Kettle is partially hidden behind Dame, but I can see his spindly legs and the tips of his big ears. Dame chuffs and extends her long nose toward me in greeting.

  “They came back to the fort, back to their friends,” Charlie continues in Pawnee. “Captain Dempsey said something must have happened to you, and he said I should bring them back across the Platte, just in case you were looking for them. When I saw you, I thought you were dead. This is a strange lodge.” He pats the table with a cheeky grin.

  “And my mules? Any sign of my mules?”

  “No.” Charlie shakes his head. “What has happened to you?” he asks again. “Where is your train?”

  “Help me stand,” I plead, and Charlie shoves the table out of the way so he can get above me. He wraps his arms around my chest and hoists me up, grunting a little at our mismatched size. He is probably the age of Wyatt but several inches shorter and much
leaner.

  “Is that your . . . Wyatt?” Charlie asks, pointing to a rider racing toward us, ringed in dust and leading a mule. For a moment I think I am seeing double, then treble, and beyond him the cloud grows as if he leads an army.

  “How many men do you see?” I ask Charlie. He begins to whoop and dance, waving his arms, and I cling to the table, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

  “I see many, many men, Mr. Lowry. The warriors have returned!” Charlie yells, and my breaths turn to fire.

  “Where the hell is Wyatt?” I mutter.

  And then I realize I’m looking at him.

  From a distance it almost appears as if he leads the charge, but upon closer inspection, it becomes obvious that he is fleeing from the Pawnee, riding Trick and leading Tumble, who are running full out toward the water, more terrified by the presence behind them than by the long stretch of river laid out in front of them. I straighten, drawing my rifle up beside me, resting it on the table so it can be seen.

  “Charlie! Take my horse. Ride out to meet them. Tell them I am a friend.”

  Charlie doesn’t argue but fists his hands in Dame’s mane, swings himself onto her back, and races toward the riders barreling toward us. Poor Wyatt must think he is being cut off. He shouts my name, and I wave my rifle, trying to reassure him.

  Kettle brays in terror.

  “Whoa, Kettle,” I demand. “It’s Trick and Tumble. We know Trick and Tumble.” But it is not just Trick and Tumble, and Kettle brays and kicks up his heels. I beg him to go easy. If he decides to bolt, I don’t have the strength to stop him.

  For a moment, I fear for Charlie, running toward his people on a borrowed horse and wearing a cavalry cap, but he is yipping with the confidence of family, and the band of Pawnee braves begins to pull up, abandoning their hard pursuit of Wyatt, though they do not stop completely.

  Wyatt reaches me, sliding from Trick without coming to a complete stop. He’s lost his hat, but somehow he’s kept his seat and control of Trick and Tumble, who are shuddering to escape the band of Pawnee coming over the rise.

  “They’ve got your mules, John,” Wyatt pants. “And I don’t think they’re inclined to give them back.” I am proud of the boy. He hasn’t lost his wits or his tongue, though his face is slicked with sweat and his eyes are wide with fear. Together, we watch them approach, not speaking, not plotting, just waiting for whatever is to come.

  The Pawnee are bloodied, and their ponies are coated in dust. Across the backs of three of the ponies are slung the bodies of their dead. Charlie is no longer celebrating, no longer smiling. He calls out to me in his language, and the warriors around him frown in confusion. They do not know what to make of me. No one ever does.

  “John Lowry, this is Chief Dog Tooth. My uncle. He has found your mules,” Charlie calls, and the man called Dog Tooth grunts and scowls at me. I don’t think he agrees with Charlie’s statement of ownership. His head is shaved but for a protrusion of matted black hair that bursts forth from a single patch on the top of his head. His eyes rove to and fro, taking me in, assessing my strength. He sniffs at me and puffs out his chest.

  “Kirikî râsakitâ?” Dog Tooth asks. What is your tribe?

  “Pawnee tat,” I answer. “But I have no village. No people. No squaw. Only those mules.” I point at the seven mules, ticking them off in my head. Boomer, Budro, Samson, Delilah, Gus, Jasper, and Judy. I sold Tug, Lasso, Lucky, Coal, and Pepper to Captain Dempsey.

  “We found them,” Dog Tooth says.

  “I know. But they are mine. The boy will tell you.” I do not call him Charlie. I don’t know if it is simply the name Captain Dempsey has given him, and I don’t want to insult him with a white man’s name in front of his chief.

  Charlie slides off my horse and leads her to me, but he does not attempt to gather my mules.

  “My nephew tells me you trade with the Dempsey,” Dog Tooth says. He pronounces the name Dempsey with the emphasis on the second syllable, like the captain is a great body of water, the Demp Sea, and not just a barrel-bellied man running a fort in the middle of nowhere.

  “Yes. For many years. But I am going west now. With my mules.”

  “They are our mules now, John Loudee,” argues a brave with the same protrusion of hair as his chief and a fresh scalp hanging from his spear. Someone calls him Skunk, and it is fitting. The r of my name becomes a soft d on his Pawnee tongue, but Wyatt recognizes that I have been challenged, and I see him inching toward the gun on his saddle.

  I touch Wyatt’s arm and shake my head. I will not let this descend into a shootout. Wyatt is not going to die today. No one is going to die today.

  “They carry my mark,” I say. The Lowry brand is small and obscure, a chicken track on the left flank, a simple JL, the J hanging on the back of the larger L. But I point it out on Dame and Kettle and then, using my rifle to support me, walk among my mules, touching my brand on each of them. They bow in shamed welcome. They ran away and now want rescue, but I will be lucky to leave with my life, not to mention my mules.

  “Dempsey knows these are my mules. The boy knows they are my mules.” I point at Charlie. “If you take them, Dempsey will know you took them from me. That will not be good for your people.”

  “We left many Sioux dead in the grass. We are not afraid of the Sioux, and we aren’t afraid of Demp Sea,” Dog Tooth says, but his braves are silent around him, and I wonder if they are simply bone weary or they know he lies. They do not look like victors, and I am fearful that they will consider my mules the only spoils of war available to them.

  “You are weak,” Dog Tooth says to me, noting my pallor and my ginger movements.

  “I am sick. While I was sick, my mules were scattered.”

  “So maybe you will die anyway,” Skunk yells, and the men around him grunt and snicker.

  “Maybe I will. But I’m not going to die today. And those are my mules,” I say.

  “We have just gone to battle with our enemies, the Sioux. We don’t want to go to battle with Demp Sea,” Charlie says, anxious, and the braves grow quiet again. I hope the boy has not drawn the ire of his chief.

  “I will give you one mule. You choose,” I say to the chief. “My gift to you for finding my animals.”

  “What about those mules?” Dog Tooth points at Trick and Tumble. “They are not your mules. They do not bear your mark.”

  “They are his mules.” I nod toward Wyatt.

  “If we take his mules, Dempsey will not care,” Skunk says. Dog Tooth raises his hand to silence the brave. Then he holds up his pinky and his ring finger, sign talk for two.

  “You give me one . . . and he gives me one. Two mules. One from each of you. And you will not die today.” The chief looks at Wyatt, who has not understood a word of the negotiation.

  “I cannot give you another man’s mules,” I say.

  Dog Tooth is defiant, shaking his head so his thatch of hair dances above him.

  Two. He enunciates the word with his fingers once more. Charlie is still standing next to Dame, and I ask him to lead her back to his chief.

  “Do you like my horse?” I ask Dog Tooth.

  He grunts. “I like the horse.” His expression is stony, but Charlie gasps.

  “I will give you the horse.” The words pain me, and I can hardly look at Dame. Skunk crows, his enthusiasm for the trade apparent. Dame is a beautiful horse, and the mules, for all their worth, do not inspire the same enthusiasm.

  “I will take the horse . . . and one mule,” the chief insists, showing me two fingers like I am slow.

  I run my hands down Dame’s sides and across her belly, feeling my way, making a great presentation of my movements. I tell Charlie to run his hands down her flanks and up her sides too, though he won’t be able to feel anything. It is for show.

  “After the snows, she will foal. And you will have your mule,” I tell Dog Tooth, raising two fingers. “One horse. One mule.”

  “You lie,” Dog Tooth says.

  “I
don’t. The donkey is the sire.” I nod at Kettle. “I’ve bred them before. I traded the foal to Captain Dempsey last year.” He was a beauty too, tawny and strong, with dark legs and a dark face. I bred Kettle to Dame in late March, when her season began, in hopes of another. It will be months before I know for sure if it was successful. But the indications are there. Dame refused another go-round before I left St. Joe—a sure sign—and she hasn’t shown signs of estrus ever since.

  It will be better to leave her behind. I know that. The rigors of the next three months would be hard on her and the unborn foal. But I could not bear to part with her. Now I must.

  I make the sign of a good trade, keeping my eyes averted from my horse.

  Dog Tooth nods and returns the sign. He tells Charlie to mount Dame, and Charlie obeys, his eyes clinging to my face. Without another word, the Pawnee chief spurs his pony forward toward the Platte, and his men follow, leaving me, Wyatt, and our mules behind.

  NAOMI

  Webb rides at the front of the train with Mr. Abbott, sitting up beside him in his wagon to be on the lookout for John’s mules. We remain at the back, doing the same. Ruts stretch across the plain. One has only to follow them to know where to go and where we’ve been, but I leave pictures behind, a trail of them, skewering them into the ground with sticks. It is foolish, but I can see the bits of white as I look back. The wind will take them away. The rain too, when it storms again. But I want John and Wyatt to know which ruts are ours.

  We follow the road for four miles until we reach a place called Buffalo Creek and then continue alongside the water for about three miles before we camp. Mr. Abbott blows his horn, indicating quitting time, and the wagons begin to circle around a spot of green that hasn’t been thoroughly trampled and eaten down by earlier herds and trains. My eyes ache from searching the horizon all afternoon. We’ve seen no sign of John’s animals, and my anger hasn’t abated.

  There are no trees, but we pull a little driftwood from the water, collecting it for future use. It’ll do us no good tonight, but the willow bushes provide enough fuel to make a fire. I boil some water for coffee and begin to make stew from salt pork and potatoes, hoping the light will guide Wyatt and John to us. I prepare dinner with my back to the rest of the train, my eyes to the east, watching; I cannot bear to look upon anything else.