Where the Lost Wander

by Harmon, Amy

  “This is my wife, Narcissa,” Vasquez says, introducing the woman in the deep-blue dress who has just joined us. She ducks under Vasquez’s arm, confident in her place. She’s small and well made and at least two decades younger than he is, but when she smiles, I see how she managed to convince a man like Vasquez to stay put—if he had to be convinced.

  “Hello, Mr. Lowry,” she says, setting her hand in mine. “You have saved the day. Where in the world did you come from?”

  “Uh . . . well,” I stammer, not knowing quite how to respond. “I’m with a wagon train. They’re still a day out. I came ahead to do some business.”

  “Those your animals?” Vasquez asks, eyeing the animals Wyatt is still guarding nearby.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He moves toward them, Narcissa beside him, and he shakes Wyatt’s hand over Samson’s long back.

  “You sellin’?” Vasquez asks me.

  “No, sir. Not if I can help it. I have to get to California, and I’m going to need them to pull my wagon.”

  “Too bad. I’m interested in buying if you’re interested in selling. I owe you one, Lowry. You calmed that whole situation, and I’m indebted to you. I don’t speak Shoshoni—not like that—and Captain Kelly even less so.”

  “The fort isn’t . . . what I expected,” I say, shifting the subject to my immediate concern.

  “It was not what I expected either, Mr. Lowry,” Narcissa says, darting a good-natured look at her husband.

  Vasquez rubs his face and sighs. “Bridger and I can’t stay put long enough to make it prosper. Fur trade is changing—we’ve got more emigrants coming through here than trappers anymore, though most of them are heading to the Salt Lake Valley. And the Mormons don’t like how we run things.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Prices too high and the pickings are too small.”

  “I can see that too,” I say, my voice as neutral as I can make it. I don’t think it’s right to gouge desperate folks, and he sighs again, hearing what I don’t say.

  “It’s expensive getting goods out here. But the grass is plentiful, and the water is mountain fresh and cold. And we don’t charge for any of that,” he says. “Still . . . I’m thinking of just letting the Mormons have it.” Vasquez sighs, and Narcissa gives him a look that speaks of long, private conversations.

  “Has there been trouble?” I ask.

  “Between Bridger and the Mormons? Yeah. And they’re right. The US government looks down on selling spirits to the locals. God knows the whiskey trade has destroyed the tribes in the East. The Sioux won’t touch it.”

  “Smart, the Sioux,” Narcissa interjects.

  “Still . . . you try telling a band of Utes or Blackfeet you won’t trade with them.” Vasquez snorts. “If they want whiskey and they have the robes and the pelts—we trade. Jim says he’s not interested in being a wet nurse to the local tribes.”

  “The Utes and the Blackfeet?”

  “They aren’t all like Washakie. He gets along. You can’t push him around, but he gets along. He trades with us, trades with the Mormons too. That’s why it’s surprising they gave him any trouble. The Utes and the Blackfeet—the Blackfeet around Fort Hall are nothing but trouble—don’t have much use for any of us.”

  “And the attack on the patrol the captain was talking about?” I ask.

  “I don’t know anything about it. That kind of thing is rare, and more often than not, the settlers get scared and shoot first.”

  “More often than not,” Narcissa agrees.

  “Captain Kelly isn’t a bad man, and he’s got no quarrel with Washakie, despite what it may have looked like,” Vasquez says. “His quarrel is with Bridger, and I’m tired of the whole business. I’m thinking I should sell out. Get my money and go. Maybe start a store in the valley—maybe go back to Missouri.”

  “And now you have all the sordid details,” Narcissa Vasquez says, smiling at me and looping her hand through her husband’s arm as if to buoy him up. “But what can we help you with, Mr. Lowry? To show our thanks.”

  “We’re in need of a wagon, ma’am,” Wyatt blurts, inserting himself into the conversation.

  Vasquez whistles, low and soft. “We get wagons through here. But all of them are full of settlers. They’re abandoned along the way, but if they roll in here, they roll out.”

  “Jefferson might be able to help,” Narcissa says. “But why a wagon now, gentlemen, when you are this far along in your journey?”

  Wyatt looks at me, expectant.

  “There’s a . . . woman . . . I’d like to marry in the company coming in. She’s got family ties and responsibilities, and that means staying with the train.”

  “Ah. I see,” Narcissa says, nodding with understanding.

  “I told her we’d marry when we reached Fort Bridger.”

  “And you thought you would find something akin to Fort Laramie, where some comfort and privacy might be enjoyed. Louis and I were married at Fort Laramie by Father de Smet. It was very exciting. Have you heard of him? He is quite famous in church circles.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Narcissa, I doubt the man’s Catholic,” Vasquez grumbles.

  “No, sir,” I say.

  “Do you have someone who can perform the marriage?” Narcissa asks.

  “I do.”

  “Then you must marry in our home. In the parlor. I insist. And you will have my room for the evening. I cannot help you with a wagon, but I can help you with this.”

  Vasquez seems surprised, but his wife continues without pause.

  “Louis is leaving in the morning for the Great Salt Lake Valley with Captain Kelly. I think we’ve convinced him Mr. Bridger isn’t returning anytime soon, if at all. I will sleep with the children. I often do when Louis is gone.”

  I glance back at Wyatt, whose face has gone crimson with all the discussion of weddings and rooms. I don’t know what to say. My pride and my need are warring in my chest.

  “That’s kind of you, ma’am,” Wyatt says, saving me. “But there’s quite a few of us. The whole train will want to attend. It might be better if we do it outside. But my sister deserves something good, something fine. I’m sure she would appreciate the room.”

  God bless you, Wyatt.

  “Very well, young man,” Narcissa says, smiling. “There’s a small clearing just behind the fort. I have a garden there, though we have a while before harvest time. There’s some yarrow that grows wild all around it. It’ll be prettier than any church. Tomorrow, at sunset. It’s the perfect time of day. And Mr. Lowry, when your bride arrives, you will bring her to me.”

  14

  THE CUTOFF

  JOHN

  I spend the next morning trying to earn a wagonload of discounted supplies out of Teddy Bowles. He does indeed have a few mares, and after looking them over, I inform him that one is probably already pregnant, despite his efforts to keep them away from the other horses, but one is in heat. The breeding season for mares extends from early spring to the end of summer, with cycles of fertility throughout. I tell him this as I explain my process, but he just wants to get started.

  “Let’s get him in here,” he says, clapping his hands.

  “She won’t be interested in the jack,” I warn. “She’s a mare, and she wants a stallion.”

  Bowles frowns, not understanding. “But I want a mule outa that jack.”

  Wyatt is trying not to laugh.

  “I understand,” I say. “But I’m going to need a stallion to make her cooperate.”

  I rattle off a few other things I’ll need and agree to meet him near the fence that divides the interior corral in an hour.

  I don’t think he’s convinced, but he sends a stable hand named Javi, a Mexican boy a year or so younger than Wyatt, to secure the stallion while he gathers the other things I’ve requested, and Wyatt and I head to the enclosure with Kettle.

  “Why do you need a stallion?” Wyatt asks.

  “We’re going to have to tease t
he mare, get her ready, and give Kettle a chance to do his business.”

  “How long do you think that’ll take?” Wyatt asks.

  “Jacks are slow. And they prefer jennies. Mounting a mare doesn’t come naturally, as natural as all this is.”

  “Huh,” Wyatt grunts, impressed.

  I scratch Kettle between his ears. “You gotta coax him. You gotta convince him. Tell him, ‘You like her, Kettle. You do.’”

  Wyatt grins and removes his hat, swiping at the dusty strands of blond hair that stick to his forehead. “Can you usually convince him?”

  “I usually can if I don’t get pushy.”

  Bowles delivers what I’ve asked of him, and within a half hour, I’ve cleared out all the other horses to the back paddock and created my stalls. Each stall consists of parallel boards jutting out from the fence that divides the corral in two. When the mare and the stallion are in their stalls, they will face each other but be separated by the fence.

  “Lead the mare into the stall, Wyatt, and stand there with her, holding her rope, but leave it nice and loose.” The makeshift stall is just wide enough for the mare to stand within it but narrow enough to keep her from turning.

  I point to Bowles. “Bring the stallion in on the other side to face her. That’s right. At home we call the stallions the dandies. He just has to look good and kiss her a little.”

  Bowles tells Javi to do as I ask and then climbs up on the dividing fence so he can get a better view.

  The mare tosses her head, and the stallion nips at her neck, baring his teeth. I let this continue for a minute, allowing the age-old ritual to unfold, before I lead Kettle up behind the mare. I let him sniff at her and nuzzle her, butting her hindquarters with his nose, before allowing him to retreat to think on it. She’s distracted by the stallion and doesn’t even realize he’s there.

  I’ve attracted an assortment of observers, including Vasquez and a small boy I assume is his son, some men from the Mormon encampment, and a ragtag assortment of trappers, Indians, and Mexicans who have emerged from places unknown.

  Kettle rises up on his hind legs against the mare’s flanks, testing the waters, before coming back down and backing off. My crowd sighs, and the mare quivers, tossing her head at the stallion and lowering her hips.

  “Do you think he’s gonna be able to do his business with everyone watchin’ like this?” Wyatt mutters, still holding the mare’s lead rope in his hands.

  Bowles hoots, and I just shake my head.

  “Patience,” I say.

  It takes an hour for Kettle to get good and ready. He mounts and backs off. Mounts and backs off. And I let him take his time. My crowd gets tired, and Bowles begins to look doubtful, but I ignore them.

  Finally, after several false starts, the mare lowers her hips with her tail raised and her flanks wet, the object of her interest posturing before her, and Kettle mounts, connects, gyrates, and within thirty seconds has withdrawn again. Task complete. He receives a smattering of applause from those who waited it out, and Bowles throws his hat in celebration. He tells Javi to take the stallion and “give that poor fellow an extra cup of grain.”

  Slipping the lead rope from the mare’s head, I back her out of the stall with a flat hand and a firm push on her chest, and she willingly goes. Bowles leads her away, already wondering out loud about the color of her offspring. Wyatt and I remove the boards on both sides of the fence, hammering the nails loose.

  “When can your jack go again?” Vasquez asks, slinging his arms over the top rail of the fence. “I’ve never been in the breeding business. I realize there’s a lot I don’t know.” His son is no longer with him, but a man with a huge wagging mustache and hair that touches his shoulders stands beside him.

  “Tomorrow. Maybe. I’m a little surprised he cooperated. He’s come almost a thousand miles, and he’s tired.”

  “That right there is not work for a jack,” the mustached man says. “That’s play.”

  I don’t argue with him. It’s work if it’s done right and cruel if it’s done wrong. I’ve always enjoyed the challenge of redirecting nature, but I’ve never pretended I can control it.

  “John Lowry, this is Jefferson Jones. He’s the blacksmith here at the fort. He thinks he can help you with that wagon.”

  I set the boards aside and shake his hand in greeting.

  “There’s a ridge on the Mormon Trail, about ten miles west of here. Steep as all get-out. There’s a half dozen wagons at the bottom of that hill,” Jefferson says.

  “A half a dozen wagons in pieces,” Vasquez interjects.

  “Yep. But that’s how all wagons start. I got an outfit we can haul the parts in. It’ll take us a half a day to go after it, another half a day to bring it back, but the bones are all there. If an axle is bent, that’s easy enough to fix if I can get it back here.”

  “I’m a mule man, not a wheelwright or a wagon builder. How long is it gonna take to put it all back together?” I ask.

  “Another day. I worked on the Erie Canal when I was about his age.” The man points at Wyatt. “All I did was fix the wagons. I could build one in my sleep.”

  “Two days?”

  “A day to go get it. A day to assemble. And you’re on your way,” he says.

  I shift my gaze to Vasquez, not sure whether I can trust his blacksmith. He shrugs. “You aren’t going to find a better option,” Vasquez says.

  “And what do you get in exchange?” I ask, looking back at Jefferson.

  “I want the jack.”

  Wyatt curses beneath his breath.

  “No.”

  “You must not want that wagon very bad.” Jefferson chuckles. I don’t laugh with him. I want the wagon, and I don’t know what in the hell I’m going to do. But I would carry Naomi on my back all the way to California with Mr. Caldwell prodding me with a stick before I’d trade Kettle. I’ve already given one jack away to make this journey; I can’t afford to lose another.

  “I think your price is too high. Make me another offer,” I say.

  He sighs like I’m being unreasonable and folds his arms over his barrel chest. “All right. No jack? Then I want a mule. I want that big black one.” He points to where my animals are cordoned, but I don’t need to look. He wants Samson.

  I can tell Wyatt wants to protest. He’s biting his lip and blinking rapidly, but he doesn’t say a word. The hardest thing about the mule business is trading the mules.

  I nod slowly. Considering I will be leaving Fort Bridger with a wagon, supplies, and a wife, the loss of one mule isn’t that bad a bargain.

  “Do we have a deal?” Jefferson presses.

  “We have a deal. When I get my wagon, you’ll get a mule.”

  NAOMI

  You don’t realize how dirty you are and how worn until you stand in a stranger’s parlor. From the outside, the structure didn’t look like much, a two-story log house tacked onto the end of the trading post, but inside is a different story. A carpet covers the floor, velvet drapes frame the window, and patterned paper covers the walls. A tinkling chandelier hangs above our heads, two rows of fresh candles waiting to be lit.

  “Isn’t that something?” Narcissa Vasquez crows, following my gaze. A bright smile colors her voice and creases her pink cheeks. “A train came through last year. And a gentleman traded it for two bottles of whiskey. I think he would have given me two bottles of whiskey just to take it off his hands. His wife passed on not long after they made Pacific Springs. He’d fought with her the whole way about that chandelier. But she wanted it and wouldn’t let it go.” She exhales. “We women want to make the world brighter, don’t we? Even if we have to fight our men every step of the way.”

  “Thank you for inviting us into your home,” Ma says, her voice thin. I know she is trying not to cough, and her breaths wheeze in her chest. Neither of us dares move for fear we’ll soil something. When I take a step, dust billows from my skirts.

  The moment we rolled in, circling our wagons about a half mile from
the rough-hewn walls of the fort, I braced myself for bad news. We made camp and set the animals loose to graze, and all the while I watched for John, preparing myself for a postponement of our plans. But when he finally arrived, Wyatt beside him, his mules strung out behind them, he surprised me again. He confirmed with Deacon Clarke that he would conduct the service and told everyone in the train they were invited to attend.

  “Sundown. Behind the fort. Mrs. Vasquez said we’ll even have cake,” Wyatt exclaimed.

  Then John told me to come with him and bring my green dress. He said he couldn’t buy me a new one, but everything else was arranged. He told me to bring Ma too. And now we’re standing in Narcissa Vasquez’s pretty parlor, as out of place as two tumbleweeds in a tropical paradise.

  “Yes . . . thank you for inviting us into your home,” I repeat, parroting my mother. I have a huge throbbing lump in my throat. I want to marry John. I want that more than anything, but I’m filthy, I’m tired, and for the first time in my life, I’m acutely aware of what I lack.

  “It is my pleasure and privilege. I get lonely here,” Narcissa confesses. She is lovely in every way—her dress, her hair, her figure, her smile—and I can only stare, baffled. She presses her hands together and beams at us as though she has a great surprise.

  “Now. Come with me. We’ve heated water for a bath. The men can wash in the creek, but a bride must have something special. Her mother too.”

  Ma starts to shake her head; she has nothing better to don, and Wolfe is asleep in her arms. “Oh no. No, we couldn’t possibly.”

  “Yes. You can,” Narcissa insists. “I will hold the little one. I have a pile of dresses you can choose from. I’m a bit of a runt, but without a hoop beneath the skirt, they will be plenty long. There’s one in particular that I think will do nicely. I wore it when I was expecting my youngest. It has a little more room in it.”

  Ma gapes.

  “And Naomi. That green dress will be lovely with your eyes. You are so tall and slim. I have a bit of lace you can wear at your throat, if you wish, or you can wear one of mine as well. There might be something there that you love.”

  We trail obediently behind her, careful not to brush up against anything as she leads us into a kitchen manned by a Mexican woman who is pouring steaming water into a big cast-iron tub. She swishes her hand in the water, mixing hot and cold, and nods in approval. There are trays of little cakes on the table, iced in white and begging to be tasted. My stomach growls, and Narcissa winks at me.