Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,120
warrior liked my pictures,” she said, as though every word took effort. When I pressed her, she just shook her head and whispered, “They’re gone, John.”
I don’t know how I will be received; I am a stranger, a Pani daipo, but when I enter the clearing, I am regarded with suspicion but no fear. I have the last of my tobacco, a bit of ribbon, and a pouch of beads and buttons I can trade. And I have three mules and the dun. The money in my bags won’t get me anywhere. Not here.
I search the men on horses and those making bets for the warrior with an obvious scar. It doesn’t take me long. The man is seasoned but not old, an obvious leader, but not a chief. A thick, ridged scar cuts across the left side of his forehead, over the bridge of his nose, and down his right cheek, ending just below his ear, dividing his face in two. He is a collection of hard lines—his hair, his limbs, his back, his scar—and he sits astride a gray roan who shimmies and dances, wanting to run. While I watch, the race begins, a gun blast that makes the ponies bolt, fifty riders running at full speed down the length of the clearing. A woman and her papoose narrowly miss getting trampled, and one pony bucks and writhes down the course, sending his rider soaring. When he slowly rises, his arm is bent the wrong way, but the race—and his horse—continues past a break in the encampments, over the creek, and back again. It ends in the clearing where it all began, the yipping and yelping like coyotes in a frenzy.
The scarred warrior wins easily, a victory that seems to have been expected, though the anger and upset among the racers and the watchers is evident. Magwich is among those who have lost a horse in the contest. He demands a new race, but he is roundly ignored as his horse is led away by one of the scarred one’s tribesmen. A new round of betting has begun, and I make my way toward the triumphant winner. He sees me coming and cocks his head, the conversation around him waning. They are surprised at my presence; I should be long gone. Everyone stares.
I did not want this; I thought I might be able to negotiate quietly, but I continue forward, leading the dun and keeping my eyes straight ahead on the warrior.
“You want to race, Pani daipo?” the man asks as I near. He knows who I am. I’m guessing they all do. If these men didn’t see for themselves what happened in the council, they heard about it.
“No,” I say, stopping in front of him.
He frowns. “No?”
“I want the—” I realize I don’t know the word for picture in Shoshoni. “I want the paper faces Magwich gave you.” There is a murmur at his name, like my words are being repeated, and I know I am courting trouble.
“You have the Face Woman,” the scarred warrior says. “You do not need her drawings.”
“They are the faces of her people. Her people are gone.”
He is silent, considering. He turns away, holding up his hand for me to wait, and returns seconds later with Naomi’s satchel. He opens the latch and pulls out a stack of loose pages. Winifred May looks up at me, and I am flooded with sudden grief.
“I do not want to give them to you,” he says. His tone is not belligerent, and no one laughs; he simply speaks the truth: he does not want to part with them.
“There are many,” I rasp, trying to speak around my emotion. “I do not need them all.”
He nods, acknowledging this. I pull a pouch of tobacco from my saddlebag and point at the picture of Winifred. “I need that one.”
He frowns, considering this for a second. Then he nods, and I hand him the tobacco. He gives me the picture on top, revealing a drawing of Warren, his face pensive and tired, his hair sticking up from his brow, staring off into a distance he’ll never reach.
“I need that one too,” I say, digging for my beads. The scarred warrior purses his lips, studying the picture, but then hands it over too, taking my trade. I exchange the ribbon for a sketch of William, the kerchief for a picture of a laughing Webb, and then I have nothing more to trade. A stack of precious images remains in