Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,132

of the exact date anymore. I lost track after Fort Bridger. I think it’s the tenth, but I could be wrong. The boys should have crossed the mountains by now. The trail was going to end at Sutter’s Mill, and I pray that Abbott will find them shelter somewhere to wait out the winter ahead. I trust the Caldwells and the Clarkes will look out for them too; Elmeda loved Winifred, and I think she loves Naomi. I hope she’ll love the boys until we find our way to them.

Naomi’s cheeks have some color beneath her freckles, and her face is not as thin. She rides on Samson’s back, her hair braided to keep it from whipping in the wind. She is eating serviceberries from a small sack, and her lips are stained red from their juice. We found the bushes where we camped last night. The season is late, and many had ripened and fallen to the ground, but we filled our bellies and saved what was left. Naomi said she’s never tasted anything better. We’ve lived on meat and the occasional roots and seeds, so the fruit is a treat, but there’s something to the Shoshoni diet. The people age slowly, and everyone has their teeth.

Naomi catches me looking at her and smiles a little, sending a bolt of heat from my chest to my toes. The space between us is gone, the tentative touches, the careful words. We’ve built a raft in my wickiup, an ark like Noah’s, where only the two of us live. And when it’s dark, we float together, shutting out the flood, the fear, and the uncertainty of a world that won’t be the same when the waters recede. Some nights Naomi is fierce, all speed and heat and frantic coupling, like she’s afraid the storm’s about to sink us. Other times she lies in my arms for hours, loving me slowly, like I am dry land.

We round the north end of the Wind River Range and go west toward the peaks Washakie calls Teewinot, which loom like a row of pendulous teats jutting out from Mother Earth. We cut through ridges and valleys heavy with trees for almost a week until we drop down into a bowl between the mountains, where the grass is long and green and the animals gorge while we rest for a day. Washakie doesn’t let us tarry longer, and we exit the valley at its south end, following the Piupa through a chasm where rivers converge and warm springs bubble in pale-blue pools, attracting the children and Naomi, who begs for a bath. Washakie promises there will be more in the valley on the other side of the mountain.

When we come out of the canyon two days later, the valley stretches in front of us, green and flat, with mountains behind us and rivers beside us, one running west, another south. As promised, a hot spring bubbles up among the rocks near the base of the hills, and Washakie says the animals will gather around it in the cold, making hunting and trapping easy when the cold makes it difficult. We make camp just below the tree line, east of the junction where the two rivers meet. Timber will be plentiful for fires, and the animals can forage beneath the trees when the snow covers the grass. Wild chickens and grouse abound, and the rivers are filled with fish. A huge elk herd is sighted just to the north, and a prettier spot I’ve never seen. The soil is rich with the minerals that bubble in the hot springs, the water plentiful, and I can’t imagine the farmland isn’t prime.

I ask Washakie why his people don’t grow corn and harvest the land, why they don’t claim this spot and stay year-round. He doesn’t like my suggestion.

“The problem with the white man is they want to tell the Indian how to live. They say, build your fence. Grow your food. Build a house that has no legs. A house like that is like a grave. Do you want me to tell you how to live?”

“I wish someone would.”

He frowns at me for a moment, surprised, maybe even a little offended, but then a smile breaks across his face, and he laughs, a sound rough and choked, like he has a fly caught in his throat.

“You are like a man whose feet are stretched across the banks, trying to live in two lands at once, Indian and white,” he