the boys who hid in the rocks, the dead women and men. I tell the story of the bow and the child who wielded it, accidentally killing Biagwi’s brother. I speak of Naomi, my wife, the woman who paints faces wherever she goes, and her infant brother. I tell them she is here—many of them have seen her—and I ask that they give her back to me, along with her brother.
When I am finished, there is a moment of silence, but then a young brave stands, his face twisted in anger and grief, and he shakes his fist at me and the leaders sitting around the fire.
“My brother is dead. I claim the child in his place. A brother for a brother.” This is clearly Biagwi, whose wife has adopted Wolfe. The people murmur and nod, and another man comes to his feet beside him. He is burly and bare chested, and black feathers hang down his back, fluttering when he turns his head to address the people around him.
“The woman is mine. I will not give her to this Pani daipo,” he shouts. The people snicker at the name—Pawnee white man—and the snakes in my stomach coil and hiss, their venom rising in my throat. And this is Magwich.
“You have taken something that is not yours,” Washakie says, addressing Magwich. “You stole a man’s wife, and you have no claim.” He turns to Pocatello, and his voice is cold and hard. “You will call death and vengeance down upon your people, upon all the Shoshoni people, with your white scalps.”
Pocatello is angry at the admonishment, and he stands from the council. “You are afraid of the white man. You bow to his demands. We did not attack first. They did.”
The crowd rumbles. It is not going well.
“Bring the woman and the child here,” an old chief says, and the leaders around the fire nod in agreement. “And we will decide what is to be done.”
Biagwi protests and Magwich sputters, but Pocatello barks a sharp order, and the men leave to do his bidding. Washakie does not sit again but remains standing at my side. Pocatello remains standing as well, his arms folded, his expression black. And we wait for the men to return.
Biagwi’s woman carries Wolfe in her arms, his blond head clutched to her breast. She is afraid. Biagwi is afraid. He has one hand at the woman’s back and one hand on his spear. He is tense, grim, and I see in him the same violent strain that hums beneath my skin.
Then I see Naomi. She is dressed like the Shoshoni women, beads at her throat and her ears, her ruddy-brown hair pulled back in a braid and swinging at her waist. Her green eyes are huge in her thin face, and her hands are stained with paint. When she sees me, she stumbles, and Magwich drags her to her feet. An old woman follows behind them, moaning and wailing like someone has died.
“John?” Naomi cries. “John?” And her legs give out again.
I want to go to her, but Washakie extends his arm across my chest. “No, brother.”
The old chief raises his hands for silence. He has taken on the role of mediator, and the people quiet. He looks at me. “You will tell the woman we have questions for her. You will tell us what she says.”
I nod and look at Naomi. She is only ten feet away, but Magwich has not released her arm. I tell him to step away, and he tightens his grip.
“Let go,” I shout, and the old chief shoos him off. Magwich releases her and takes a single step to the side, bracing his feet and gripping his blade.
“Naomi, they want you to answer their questions,” I say in Shoshoni and then in English, doing my best to ignore him.
She nods, her eyes clinging to my face.
“Who is this man?” the old chief says to Naomi, pointing at me. I translate.
“John Lowry. He is my husband.” Her voice breaks, and she says it again, louder.
“Who is the child?” the chief asks, pointing at Wolfe.
“He is my brother,” Naomi responds.
“She cannot feed him,” Biagwi shouts. “She is not his mother and has no milk in her breasts.”
The chief begs silence again, and we continue on, the old chief asking questions while I interpret, and Naomi responding. Washakie steps in when the old chief asks where the wagons were. He knows the area and the Shoshoni names; he knows the path the emigrants