Where the Lost Wander

by Harmon, Amy

  We have reached the Parting of the Ways. One road veers right for Oregon, one veers left for California, and for as far as the eye can see, there are two divergent paths, the space between them ever widening. It’s a beautiful name for a lonely stretch of goodbyes.

  “Ten days to Fort Bridger,” Abbott says. “And we’ve got the better of it. Folks heading that way have a desert to travel through.” He points at the ruts we won’t be following. “They call that the Sublette Cutoff. I’ve heard it’s pure misery. Used to be that everyone went to Fort Bridger. But folks are always trying to save time. It’s funny. Ya take a shortcut tryin’ to save time, and ya lose your life. That’s what they call irony, John Jr. Irony.” He waves his finger at John, nodding his head like an old sage.

  Abbott has been cautious. Despite my anger at him for moving on when John’s mules were scattered, he has been prudent every step of the way, sometimes more than prudent. The loop to Fort Bridger avoiding the desert called the Little Colorado and the highest ridge on the Overland Trail is easier on both the travelers and the teams, but it adds a good seventy or eighty miles to the distance, and there are some among us who want to brave the cutoff.

  The two trails will rejoin for a stretch before they part again, but those who take the north fork at the Parting of the Ways will be—if they make it through the desert and down the steep descents—days ahead. It is agreed that half of us will remain together, taking the Bridger Loop, and the rest will take the pass.

  Eighteen wagons in our train peel off, headed by a man named Clare McCray, who they’ve all elected to be captain. There are tears, knowing the likelihood of ever seeing each other again is slim. We all knew we would part ways eventually, but it doesn’t make it any easier for those who have become close in these months of toil.

  Then we are moving on, twenty-two wagons and half a herd, our eyes cast southward toward the rest of our journey. But I’m not thinking about California or the miles ahead. I’m not thinking about land or valleys of green or even the day it’ll all be over. My thoughts are centered on Fort Bridger.

  12

  THE GREEN

  NAOMI

  We travel seven more miles to finish out the day, camping near the Big Sandy River, our circle feeling small and oddly quiet. The water is muddy but swift moving, and Abbott says it’s safe to drink, though it tastes unpleasant, especially after the cold, sweet water of the springs we’ve left behind. We fill our canteens with the water left in the barrels before filling them to the top with the swill from the Big Sandy. We have thirty miles skirting the edge of the desert, and water will be hard to come by, especially in late July.

  No trains nip at our heels. The only trains behind us are likely Mormons who will end their journey in the Salt Lake Valley, only another hundred miles west of Fort Bridger.

  The distance worries everyone and has Mr. Caldwell and others grumbling in Abbott’s ear almost every day. The men sit in council at night, excluding the women, only to go back to their own camps and seek their wives’ opinions. Or maybe that’s just Pa.

  Ma’s got a bad cough. She tries to hold it back, but it escapes sometimes and rattles her thin chest. She says she just sounds bad but doesn’t feel bad. The dry desert air makes it worse, along with the dust, and she rides with Wolfe in the wagon all day, the canvas pulled tight, but we can still hear her. She says she needs to alter my green dress.

  “You can’t wear it if it doesn’t fit,” she says, but it’s just an excuse to make us all feel better about her shutting herself away. We feed Wolfe with a spoon, dipping it into a cup of goat’s milk and dribbling it into his little mouth, one drop at a time. It’s time consuming and tedious, but more and more, Ma’s milk just isn’t enough.

  I haven’t told her that John says he’s buying me something new. It isn’t important. She’s happy for me and happy for him, and she’s glad we’ve decided not to wait.

  John joins us for meals, sitting beside me on the ground, his back to his saddle, which he carries to and from our fire every night. Just like before, we do not touch unless we are alone, but the word has spread through the camp that a wedding will take place at Fort Bridger. It’s most likely Webb who has spilled the beans. He’s told anyone who will listen that John is going to be his new brother, and they are going to go into business together when we reach California.

  “I been thinkin’ on a name, John,” he says. “Lowry May Mules. And this can be our brand.” He takes a stick and draws a connected M and L in the dirt.

  “There’s an idea,” John says, nodding. “I like it.”

  “You can be a partner too, Will,” Webb says, not wanting to leave Will out.

  “I don’t want to breed mules,” Will says. “I just want to hunt all day. I want to be a trapper like Daniel Boone.” Will doesn’t ever set the bow and arrow down. He shoots all day long at everything he sees. Webb wheedles him daily for a “turn,” but in truth, Webb is more happy herding mules than doing endless target practice. Webb has a lariat that he swings over his head while he rides. Trick and Tumble have grown accustomed to his constant motion in the saddle, and poor Gert has been noosed several times a day since joining the train.

  “Nothin’ in the whole world is better than mules, right, John?” Webb asks, dismissing Will’s ambitions.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Webb. There might be a few,” John says. He glances at me, and Webb wrinkles his nose.

  “I can’t think of any.” Webb pouts. “Not a single thing.”

  “What about Ma’s songs and blueberry biscuits and Naomi’s pictures?” Will says, ever the peacemaker.

  “I do like those things,” Webb admits. “I wish I had a blueberry biscuit right now. What are your favorite things, John?”

  John shifts, not liking the personal nature of the question. “I’d have to think on it,” he says. Ma jumps in to save him.

  “My favorite things are buttermilk pie, robin’s-egg blue, Webb’s laughter, Will’s prayers, Wyatt’s courage, Naomi’s sass, Pa’s love, Wolfie’s snores, and Elmeda’s friendship.” Ma smiles at Elmeda, including her in the conversation. The Caldwells, the Binghams, and Abbott have joined us around our fire for coffee and a little conversation. We’ve all been feeling lonelier since the train split in two, and folks have begun to seek each other out at bedtime, almost like we did in the beginning.

  “I also love Warren’s stories, Elsie’s good humor, and John’s patience,” Ma adds, pinning John with a rueful grin. It’s true. John has the patience of Job when it comes to Webb.

  “What do you love, Pa?” Webb asks, making a game of it.

  Pa rattles off a few things—fresh meat, sleep, clean water, a smooth road. All things we haven’t seen much of. Everyone takes a turn until the exercise is exhausted, and we’re all feeling a little forlorn and hungry, reminded of apple tarts and feather beds and warm baths in the kitchen. Elsie Bingham has fallen asleep on her side, her head in her husband’s lap, her arms resting on her belly.

  “Will you sing us a song, Ma?” Webb asks when we all fall silent. We’re tired, yet none of us have the energy to ready ourselves for bed.

  “I can’t sing tonight, Webb. It tickles my throat. I’ll sing tomorrow when my cough goes away,” Ma says.

  “Well, Warren’s on watch, so he can’t tell us a story.” Webb sighs. “Do you know any stories, John?”

  A dozen pairs of eyes swing John’s way. We’ve all heard Abbott’s stories more times than we care to, and Pa can’t tell a story to save his soul.

  John sets down his cup and straightens, like he’s about to bolt.

  “I guess I do,” he says, so quiet that everyone bends their heads toward him to better hear. “I don’t know if this is a true story. Or an old story, or a new story. It’s just something my grandmother told me once, the last time I saw her. It is a story of Hawk, a young Pawnee. Pawnee is what my mother was, what I am too, I suppose—”

  “I want to be Pawnee,” Webb interrupts. “How do ya get to be one of those?” />
  “Well . . . this story is about how Hawk became a Comanche—”

  “What’s a Comanche?” Webb asks.

  “Webb!” Wyatt growls. “Would ya listen, please? You’re gonna scare John away, and then the rest of us won’t get to hear his story.”

  “A Comanche is another tribe. They were the great enemies of the Pawnee. They loved to make war on the Pawnee, and the Pawnee loved to make war on them and steal their horses. One night, Hawk—Kut-a’wi-kutz—who had many horses and was very good at stealing them from the Comanche, sneaked into a Comanche camp. He saw many beautiful horses outside a big lodge.”

  “What kind of horses were they?” Webb asks, and Wyatt sighs.

  “What do you think?” John asks Webb, not seeming to mind his interruptions.

  “One was a dun, one was a roan, and one was a pretty paint,” Webb answers, no hesitation.

  “I think you are right. Hawk was just about to take all three of them when he saw a shadow inside the lodge. It was a very handsome lodge with feathers and dried buffalo hooves hanging in the doorway and clattering in the wind, making a noise that sounded like his name. Hawk looked around to make sure no one was there, but the clattering hooves and whispering feathers again made the sound of his name. Kut-a’wi-kutz. He thought maybe someone was calling to him from inside. When Hawk peeked into the lodge, he saw a girl brushing her long hair.”

  “Did she look like Naomi?”

  “Naomi’s not an Indian,” Mr. Caldwell grunts, and there is a collective discomfort around the fire.

  “Yes. She looked just like Naomi,” John says, raising his eyes to mine in brief appraisal, and I smile at his quiet defiance.

  “Hawk forgot about the horses. Instead, he watched the girl all night long. When he finally left, he took two of the horses—”

  “The roan and the dun,” Webb says.

  “All right. But he left the paint, in case it belonged to the girl. He went back home to his people, but every time he saw something pretty, he would think of the Comanche girl, and he would trade one of his horses for the pretty thing, until he had traded almost all his horses.

  “His friends said, ‘We must go take more horses from our enemies, the Comanche, for your horses are almost gone.’ So Hawk agreed, but he took all the pretty things he had collected with him.

  “Hawk and his friends went back to the place where the Comanche camp had been, but the camp was gone. They went to another camp, but Hawk couldn’t find the lodge of the girl, and he left the camp without stealing any horses. His friends didn’t understand. Hawk said, ‘Let’s go find another camp, and we will steal their horses.’ They went to another camp, and another, and Hawk did not steal the horses at any of them; he just looked for the girl.

  “At the last Comanche camp, Hawk crept among the lodges, looking for the lodge with the buffalo hooves and the feathers. Then he heard his name, Kut-a’wi-kutz, and knew he had found it. He went into the lodge, and there was the girl, fast asleep. He put all the pretty things he had collected for her at her feet and then lay down beside her, for he was very tired from searching.”

  Mr. Caldwell scoffs and shakes his head, as if the story has suddenly turned inappropriate.

  “What happened then? Did she wake up and scream?” Webb asks, oblivious to any unease.

  “She did wake up, but it was dark, and she could not see who was there. She reached out and touched Hawk’s hair. The Pawnee warriors shave all their hair except for this piece right here.” John reaches out and tugs softly on the hank of Webb’s hair between his crown and his forehead.

  “Like Dog Tooth,” Wyatt contributes soberly. He says he still dreams of being chased by the band of Pawnee.

  “Yes.” John nods. “The girl was afraid because she knew Hawk was Pawnee. But his skin was cold, and he was sleeping so deeply that she took pity on him and put her blanket over his shoulders before she sneaked out of the lodge and went to find her father, who was the head chief of the Comanche.”

  “Did Hawk get away?” Webb asks, worried.

  “He did not want to get away,” John replies slowly.

  “He didn’t?” Webb squeaks.

  “No. He wanted to be close to the girl.”

  Webb wrinkles his nose, as though he can’t imagine it, and something warm begins building in my chest.

  “The head chief and all his war chiefs took Hawk and all his pretty things and brought him into the big lodge. They sat around the fire and passed the pipe while they decided how they wanted to kill him.”

  “Are there lots of different ways to kill a fellow?” Webb asks.

  “Yes. Some more painful than others. And the girl’s father was very angry with Hawk.”

  “Because the Pawnee and Comanche are enemies,” Webb says.

  “That’s right. Around and around the circle, the Comanche passed the pipe, and no one could make a decision. But then the old grandfather came into the big lodge, and he saw Hawk wrapped in his granddaughter’s blanket, awaiting his fate. He saw the gifts he brought, and he said to Hawk, ‘Did you come to take my granddaughter away from her people?’

  “Hawk said, ‘No. I want only to be near her. If you will let me stay, her people will be my people.’

  “The grandfather sat down among the Comanche chiefs, and when the pipe finally reached him, he said to his son, the head chief, and all the braves, ‘We will not kill the Pawnee. We will make him one of us. He will bring peace between the Pawnee and the Comanche.’”

  “Peace? Isn’t there any fighting in this story?” Webb wails.

  “No. No fighting.” John’s lips twitch. “Hawk stayed with the Comanche and married the daughter of the chief. He stayed with her people, the Comanche, until the day she died. Only then did he go back to his own people.”

  “She died?” Webb squeaks. “How did that happen?”

  “My grandmother did not tell me. But that is not the important part of the story.”

  “What’s the important part?” Will asks.

  “Peace between people,” John answers.

  We are quiet for a moment, thinking that over. Even Mr. Caldwell has nothing to say.

  “I’ve heard that tale before,” Abbott says. “The legend of Hawk, the Pawnee Comanche chief, has lots of chapters.”

  “I think I liked the part where he was stealin’ horses the best,” Webb says, frowning. “I want to know what happened to the dun and the roan and the paint.”

  “Maybe you can decide, and then tomorrow, you can tell us what happened to them, in your own story, after supper.”

  “I have early watch,” John says, rising suddenly. He’s been the center of attention for too long. He says good night, hardly looking at me, and I let him go, my thoughts still on his tale. Abbott and the Caldwells are quick to bid good night as well, taking their dishes and their opinions with them. Homer Bingham rouses Elsie, then helps her to her feet and walks alongside her as she waddles toward their wagon.

  Ma sends the boys to bed, letting Pa herd them into the tent and get them settled. For a few moments, Ma and I are alone by the fire, Wolfe sleeping soundly in a basket at her feet. She is wearing her coat of many colors wrapped tightly around her, though the night is temperate and the fire is hot. We have plates and cups to wash and dough to make, but neither of us moves.

  “It’s your story,” Ma says softly. “And John’s.”

  “What is, Ma?”

  “The story of Hawk and the Comanche girl. Peace between people.”

  “Do you think John knows that? I don’t want him to give up his people for me.”

  “I think John knows it best of all. He said much the same thing to your pa when he sought his permission.”

  “Pa’s permission.” I sigh. “I don’t need Pa’s permission.”

  “Maybe you don’t . . . but John did. He told William, ‘I will take care of Naomi, but I will also take care of your family. Your family will be my family.’” Ma stares at the fire, her back bent, her arms wrapped around h
er knees, and I suddenly need to go find John and fall down at his feet.

  “Go to bed, Ma. Take Wolfe and go to sleep. I’ll clean up here and make the dough and be in beside you soon.”

  Ma does not argue but rises wearily, hoisting Wolfe like an old crone with her basket of wash. “When you say good night to John, thank him for the story.” Her tone is wry, if weary, and I smile at her departing back. She knows me so well. “Tell him I am grateful for him too.”

  “I will, Ma.”

  “I love you, Naomi,” Ma adds. “I only got one daughter, but God gave me the very best one He had.”

  “I’m guessing He was glad to get rid of me.”

  “He won’t ever be rid of you. That’s not how God works.”

  “Night, Ma.”

  “Night. And let John get some sleep, Naomi.”

  When I hesitate, she laughs, but the laughter turns to wheezing.

  JOHN

  Other than the sand and the barren stretches of dust and gravel, Abbott was right. The way isn’t hard, and we make good time, lifting the pall and easing the worry on furrowed brows. We reach the Green River the following day. Timber lines the banks, and there is plenty of grass, but the river is wide—easily a hundred feet from shore to shore—and swift moving, and when I walk the dun out into the current, he can’t touch bottom about a third of the way across, and I turn him back.

  “It’s too deep to cross here. I’ll go upstream a ways. The Mormons have a ferry several miles up, but we might not need to go that far. Water the animals, let them graze, and I’ll see if I can find a better place to ford,” I tell Abbott, who readily agrees.

  I stay on the shore, veering down to check the depth of the water every so often, while keeping an eye open for a break in the trees where the wagons can cut down to the riverbank without too much trouble.

  After I’ve traveled about fifteen minutes, I see a band of more than a hundred Indians—mostly women and children—gathered on the shore, their animals packed to the hilt with lodge poles and skins, an occasional child perched high on the loads. The few men among them begin to urge the animals across as if they are familiar with the river and its low points, and the women don’t wait for them to reach the other side but follow without hesitation, children on their backs and baskets in their arms. A few rafts constructed out of branches and braided together are piled with more supplies, and older children cling to the edges, pushing the rafts through the water, keeping a tight hold as the water laps at their chests. The dogs plow into the river alongside them, swimming as fast as they can, fighting against the current and often losing, though they manage to fight their way to the other side eventually. I pull the dun up short, watching the band’s progress and gauging the depth of the water, certain that I’ve found the best place for the wagons to cross.