Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,109

talk. I did not point fingers of blame or mention Pocatello, the Gathering, or the promise I made Chief Washakie and the promise he made me. I left that up to him. Hanabi tells me that even though the family group they travel with is small—250 people and seventy wickiups—Washakie is head chief over many bands of Shoshoni, and they will listen to him.

Every day Washakie asks me if my woman is strong.

Every day I answer that she is.

I wish he wouldn’t ask. It makes me wonder exactly how strong she will have to be. He does not ask like he needs to know. He asks like he is trying to remind me, to make me say the words out loud. He asks me many things, and the conversations distract me from the snakes, hissing and writhing, so big and loud now that there is no room for anything else. I lie awake in my tent at night, among the tipis, convinced I will keep the families awake with the rattling. I rest because I must, but even in sleep my stomach is not free from the coils.

Washakie wants to know about my white father and my Pawnee mother. So I tell him. I talk and he listens, and then he presses for more. He is hungry to know, and I answer every question forthrightly, restricted only by my limited Shoshoni vocabulary.

“You were not raised by your people?” he asks, and I know he means the Pawnee.

“They did not like me. I was a two-feet. Pítku ásu’.”

He waits for more explanation.

“My mother brought me to my father. I never thought he liked me either, but maybe I was wrong. I don’t know anymore.”

“He was a good father?”

I am reminded of the time I asked Charlie if Dog Tooth was a good chief and his response: “What is a good chief?” What is a good father? I’m not sure I know.

“He never . . . shunned . . .” I’m not sure I am using the right word, but Washakie nods like he understands. “He never shunned me. He worked hard. Made sure I knew how to fight. And I am . . . loved.” It is an admission I have never made before, but I have come to believe it is true.

“My father was not one of the people,” Washakie says after a moment of silence. “I am a two-feet like you.”

“He was not Shoshoni?” I ask, surprised.

“He was Flathead. He died when I was a young boy. When he died, my mother returned to her people, the Lemhi Shoshoni, and I was raised Shoshoni.” He points to a woman riding an old horse. “That is my mother. Her name is Lost Woman. I am the only family she has left.”

I have noticed her before. She was with Hanabi by the Green River. But she keeps herself apart, and Washakie has made no move to introduce us. Hanabi rides beside her now, and the contrast between them is marked. Hanabi is young and straight, her hair heavy and dark. The woman beside her is bent, her hair is white, and she shares a weary long-suffering with the horse she rides.

“Why is she called Lost Woman?” I ask, my heart aching for her.

“It is what she has always been called.” He shrugs. “And that is what she is. A lost woman. She is lost in grief. A husband, a daughter, two sons. All gone. My brothers died not long ago. They were hunting in the snow along the hillside. The snow began to slide and fall, and they were buried in it. My mother went looking for them. She knew they had been buried. She dug all over the hill with her hands. She would not listen to reason when I begged her to stop. We found them when the snow melted.”

We move far more quickly than the wagons would have, but each day is torture. I am plagued with worry and strain, and the distance we must travel is not insignificant. We move steadily north, and though Washakie’s people seem eager for the Gathering, there is no sense of haste or hurry to arrive. We see some buffalo a ways off, but when the men yelp and want to hunt, Washakie shakes his head. It will take too much time to dry the meat and treat the hides, and we continue on. If there are a few resentful looks cast my way, I do not see them, and I am