Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,123
to see if he wants to die. I want to kill him, but I don’t want to die. I made a promise to three boys and a dead man that I would take care of Naomi. I can’t do that if I kill this man and have to face two thousand more. I am not one of them. He is.
“I don’t want to kill you,” I lie. “Take your knife and Wahatehwe’s horses and go. I don’t want them.”
He laughs. I am bleeding, and he is not. Some in the circle around us jeer, and others jostle to see. Magwich picks up his knife and begins to circle, his stance low and his feathers dancing. He is favoring his knee. He lunges, and I kick out again, connecting with his injured leg, but the dirt is thick and loose from the pounding of hooves and the near-constant racing. I slip, and he pounces, bringing his knife down in a wide arc. It glances off the ground above my head, but my knife is already in his belly. He stiffens, his big body flexing in surprise. He tries to roll away, to escape the blade that is already embedded, but I wrap both hands around the hilt and yank upward, splitting him open before shrugging him off.
He gasps and grabs at his belly, but he is dead before I jerk my knife free. Then I rise to my feet, bloodied and tattered, my blade up and ready for whatever is next.
I expect a rush of knife-wielding Shoshoni, but I am greeted by a brief silence followed by whoops and wails and nothing more. Wahatehwe raises his arms and howls, and Washakie does the same. Some of Pocatello’s men come forward out of the circle, their eyes cautious. One asks if I will take the scalp. My stomach rebels, and I shake my head, refusing the rite. They lift Magwich onto their shoulders, his blood spilling down their backs and onto the ground, but no one rushes me with a spear or a blade. No one confronts me at all. Someone shrieks in mourning, and many voices join in as the body leaves the clearing, but like the final decision at the council, the matter is decided. It is done. Magwich challenged, and Magwich lost. I pick up the satchel, covered with dust and splattered with blood, and go in search of my horse.
NAOMI
I awake to distant wolves wailing, and I am alone in John’s tent. It is midafternoon, and I have slept for hours; I could sleep for hours more, but the sound rising up beyond the encampment has me crawling out of the tent to see what new hell has arrived. No one in the camp seems especially concerned by the noise, though many are gathered near Hanabi’s wickiup. The chief, Washakie, is speaking, and both men and women are listening intently, their eyes wide, mouths agape, like he is relaying a tale. Occasionally another brave cuts in, providing added emphasis or explanation—I can’t tell which—and then Washakie continues. But I hear John’s name.
Then I see John.
He is leading the dun toward the camp, and both he and the horse are caked in dust and blood. Everyone in Washakie’s camp exclaims, and a few run toward him, but he lifts his hand the way he does with his animals, reassuring them, quieting them. I want to run to him too, but I stay rooted to the spot. There is too much blood—his clothes are soaked in it—and my legs have gone numb. John scans beyond the heads of those huddled around him and sees me. He moves through the people, and they part for him. I think one asks to take the horse, but he shakes his head and leads the dun toward me. Hanabi claps her hands, snapping something, and the people disperse, leaving us in relative solitude.
“Are you hurt?” I choke, trying not to look at him, willing the bile in my belly to settle. I pin my eyes to the western sky beyond his shoulder. For months I’ve been looking at the western sky, walking toward it, but now I’m standing still.
“No. The blood isn’t mine,” he says, calm. Quiet.
“Okay,” I say. Nodding.
“You need to sit,” he says. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“I’m fine.” He reaches out a hand to steady me, and I step back. I don’t mean to. I just do, and he drops his hand.